What We Can't Have
by Wolkov
Summary: If one attempts to alter the course of Fate, what is to happen henceforth? Welcome to the story of Farah Dovaros & how she fights for her survival; battling a cold & ruthless assassin who won't stop at anything to accomplish his prophesied goal. Caught up in the storm of passion & turmoil, they shall either clash or fall apart, & both present one end: the surrender of their hearts.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **_Okay. I know. Another fanfic. My mind just keeps on working, I cant stop D: I'm a fan of the Assassin's Creed, and decided to write a story for one of the characters. And it is zzz one and only Altair. Read on and enjoy!_

What We Can't Have

_Order_.

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according _to _the _plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will _take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter One

1190, Damascus, Syria

"Farah!" a rough male voice echoed through the walls of the room, maybe even rattling them by its ferocity. It shook Farah's insides, that was for sure. The girl quivered in fear and retreated deeper into the shadows.

_Please_, she begged. _Please somebody help me_. But, like always, no one did.

No one would.

"You dare disobey me? Me!" the voice roared, fury lacing it. Farah covered her mouth with her hand to stifle the sobs. Loud and heavy footsteps marched her direction, and all Farah could do at the moment was pray that he wouldn't find her. Please, please, please.

An amused grunt escaped lips and filled the space, and she, in the dead silence, slowly brought her knees up against her chest. The room was eerily quiet, even the roars and shouts of the one responsible, and it triggered uneasiness in her. Where was_—_

The features of a man suddenly came into view, black eyes gleaming with demise. Farah shrieked in panic and scrambled back, her spine hitting the back of the desk she hid under.

"Found you," her father roughly said and latched onto her arm. She instantly started fighting back, her legs shooting forth and her body flailing like a fish out of water.

Her father dragged her out from under the table, and kicked her hard on the stomach, provoking her tiny body to roll across the floor. It instantly erupted in waves of unbearable pain, and all Farah could do at the moment was to not start crying_—_a weakness her father loathed.

He stomped up to her and grabbed her by the hair, emitting a whimper from her. He dragged her up to her shaking feet and forced her to face him sideways. "You will marry Edwardo, understand sweet daughter?"

Farah closed her eyes at the way he sneered the words 'sweet daughter', and felt her throat tighten.

Edwardo de Pablo, the man twice her age she had to marry. But she wouldn't. By God, she wouldn't dare. Not was he quite older than her but he also was the literal meaning of a human pig.

From the information she had secretly gathered, Farah found out the vile things that man operated behind his overused public status. He raped his slaves and stole from his people. He slaughtered innocents and it mattered not to him if they were women, children or even old. He was vile, and he was disgusting. And she was to marry the epitome of Hell?

Never.

Not now, not today, not ever. She was her own and she would stand up for herself_—_because no one else did and will_—_even if her father was to beat her to the very ground. If she was to marry de Pablo, Farah would be going from one abuser to another. Not to mention all the unlawful things he'd do to her. He was far from husband material, and she was far too proud to level herself with a nefarious being such as he.

"I don't," she at last croaked out with mustered vehemence. "And I never will."

"Is that so?" Her father literally spat on her cheeks with the force of his gritted words, and tightened his grip on her hair. Farah offered no response.

"Then let me show you the errors of your way," he hissed into her ear. And so he did. Farah tightly closed her eyes and held back her cries as he beat her for five long, torturous hours.

-x-

1190, Masyaf

Altair Ibn La-Ahad stood before his master, Al Mualim, and awaited for orders. His master calmly gazed up from the piles of paper scattered across his desk and at his student, forming a short nod to acknowledge his presence.

"Your next target is a Templar from Europe, Edwardo de Pablo," Al Mualim informed him. Straight to business, just like Altair preferred it.

"What are his crimes?" he asked.

"He stands between the Brotherhood and Peace. De Pablo steals from his people, and when they're unable to pay him, he turns them into slaves and sells them for money. He's aware of our just Creed and desires to destroy it."

"And destroy his body I will. Where does he reside?"

Al Mualim clasped his hands behind his back. "Damascus. He has a palace in the rich district. Rafiq shall fill you in with the details."

The assassin formed a stiff nod, and turned on his heels to depart.

"Bring justice to the Brotherhood, Altair," his master calmly called out from behind him. And bring justice he would. He turned to a corner and instantly vanished from sight.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

"Oh, Altair!" Rafiq Kadar greeted him as Altair invaded the Assassin's Bureau through the roof.

"Safety and peace, brother," he saluted as strode inside.

Rafiq was a retired assassin, and thus he spent his quality time selling and purchasing Persian carpets whilst keeping an eye on the city for any Templar, Crusader acts.

Altair walked up to the wooden counter and informed Rafiq of his target. "He is almost always guarded. He rarely leaves his palace, and does his deeds at night. I have learned that he will sell slaves tonight at the poor district. That is where I will take his life." The Rafiq wrote the information down in his black book of records and handed him a pure feather to mark.

Altair took it, placing it inside a pocket at his side.

"You did well, Altair. You are welcome to rest here until the time of your mission," he kindly offered. He was an old man_—_nonetheless dangerous as any assassin should be_—_and thus Altair respectfully declined his kind gesture. Rafiq nodded, not pressing any further.

"May fortune favour your blade, brother."

With that prayer, Altair departed back into the hectic city to gain more valuable information on his target. Since it was day time, he was confident the gossipers were having the time of their lives.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

"Lady Farah, at least take your cloak!" her servant called out from behind Farah's running figure.

"I think after what I've been through, I'll survive without my cloak, Sarah," she shot back as she threw open the front doors. Sarah fell silent behind her, and Farah didn't hesitate stepping out of the palace grounds.

"Farah, where are you going? Come_—_" her mother asked but was interrupted by Farah releasing a, "Mother, please!"

Her mother fell into silence as well, giving her daughter enough time to sniff back the burning tears. "Come back soon, my dearest..." her mother softly murmured.

Farah quickened her pace and fled through the open black gates of the palace. She had yet again protested, and her father had yet again beat her. Her mother was powerless to stop him, and rightly so. Every time she did, her father would beat her after he had taken care of Farah. Her mother would swell and bruise and bleed, and Farah would watch her mother suffer for her crimes.

Well, crimes in her father's eyes.

That is why her mother no longer interfered, no longer voiced her opinions fearing she'd lay in bed for weeks to come. But Dominica would cry for her daughter's suffering, she would pray for her well-being and, watching her own husband abuse their own flesh and blood, wish death upon him.

What would happen to Farah if she was to marry Edwardo for political reasons than love? Would he abuse her, treat her below him, then after Farah has given birth, beat her child like her father did her, and she'd have to helplessly watch it happen?

The answer to those questions came as easily as breathing: yes. He would ruin her and she would quiver in fear just at the aura of his presence.

At the moment, Farah feared him not. She loathed him and used the energy of her hate towards him as her strength. She would fight both tooth and nail for her life. Her freedom. They would not take that away from her; she would not let them.

Farah barely left the safety of the palace grounds, and she did so with a servant and a few guards. Now, she was alone, Farah thought, bewildered. Now, she was... free.

Not quite believing her eyes, she twirled around and took in the beauty of Damascus. It had been six months since her arrival here from Europe due to her father's job, and she loved the freshness of this city. Unlike the cold, frosty Europe, the climate here was warm, sunny and blissfully ravishing.

The sun bathed her with its shimmering rays and caused her to sigh out in tranquillity. Now this was life.

Suddenly giggling, Farah once more twirled around, and abruptly halted. She brought her fingers to her lips and brushed them across the soft, pink flesh. Did she just... giggle?

Farah barely laughed. Hell, even smiled. Now that she had freely let one escape was too astonishing to her. Gradually, her lips lifted again and Farah soon found herself smiling. She literally loved this warming feeling. This... freedom.

Give it up? No, never. Now that she had gotten a brief taste of it, she was suddenly thirsty for more.

Watching the civilians of Damascus go on with their daily routines_—_shopping, selling, gazing and with their kids playing_—_Farah leisurely blended into the crowd and disappeared.

It wasn't after hours of hours of wandering, laughing and, yes, even playing with children, reading them a book she bought from the Souk under the chilling shade of a tree, Farah decided to at last sit down on a shaded bench.

Leaning back and resting her weight on her palms, she tilted her head back and exhaled deeply. What a hectic day it was...

Feeling her bare feet_—_she gave away her shoes to a poor lady, knowing she'd need it more than Farah_—_brush against the warm, rugged sandy ground, Farah lazily smiled.

She never wanted this day to end. And prayed it would stretch as long as it possibly could.

A sudden welcoming melodious voice broke the silence, the sound calling out loud and clear.

Farah hummed with the melodious tune of the man uttering it_—_even if she didn't know what he was saying. But, spending her time in this holy city, Farah knew it was a call for some kind of prayer for the civilians. It boomed across the land and the skies five times a day, and each time the civilians obediently responded.

They'd even close their shops, rush to the sphered building that held the prayer, and would stand in straight rows next to each other, their shoulders brushing at the closeness. People never did that in Europe, it was... intriguing watching it happen before her eyes.

But what Farah found utterly mesmerizing about it was the fact that if there was no space in that sphered building, people would easily perform their prayer outside_—_on the very ground itself. After they were done, everyone would greet the other with a smile and go on with their daily routines_—_until it called for prayer again.

The soothing voice of the man ended, causing silence to greet her ears. The pedestrians shuffled before her, some walking with their friends, some alone, and others with their families and children.

Farah spotted an average man suddenly pick up his naughty boy, earning a giggle from the infant, and place him on his broad shoulders. He held the child's hands and gazed up with a smile. The child gazed down at him with obvious adoration and love. His wife chuckled and patted her husband's back, which earned her a kiss on the forehead from him. Farah could almost imagine the female purring in content.

Her chest constricted painfully, and Farah couldn't stop the pout that tugged at her lips.

I want something like that, she thought. A loving family and a husband who adored you, the atmosphere filled with mercy, affection and bliss. As if they were a dream she could never hope to attain, Farah lowered her eyes.

The civilians leisurely started to lessen, the streets emptying by each passing moment. Sighing, Farah glanced up, smiled at the blue sky, angled her head to the side, and suddenly stilled.

There, right beside her, sat a man cloaked all in white. She slightly shifted. He didn't seem like he was in a hurry. Half of his face was shaded by the hood swung over his head, and all kinds of weapons_—_deadly weapons_—_decorated his muscular form.

He possessed a sword swinging at his side and a thick steeled blade strapped against his shoulder blades with the support of brown leather. Other styles of blades protectively hugged his form, from the broad lines of his shoulders to the angles of his hips.

Farah gulped at the heavily guarded man before her, and hastily looked away. Then found herself gazing back up at him, his peculiar vibrant aura luring her eyes to him like a deadly mermaid would a sailor.

He sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin positioned atop clasped hands. He stared down rather than forth, and sat in such an eerie silence, Farah swore he looked dead if it weren't for the even rise and fall of his shoulders.

With her eyes skidding down, she witnessed his cloak depart from the sides, revealing black slacks and knee-high warrior boots. He possessed a knife strapped to the side of his boot, and it gleamed dangerously sharp when the sun caressed its form.

Brows furrowing, Farah glanced up at him and held her gaze. Why was he armed as if he was going to annihilate an entire army? Was he some kind of bandit? A guard? But the latter seemed impossible for guards wore a different attire. And if he was a bandit, why wasn't he in hiding? Why would he display himself to the public, for all to see? Hence, if he was not a bandit, then who was he?

Did he have freedom? Farah found herself suddenly wondering.

He looked like someone who had freedom. Hell, he radiated an aura of supremacy. He almost seemed... unstoppable.

With just a swing of that sharp sword, Farah was sure pockets would be emptying. She knew she would empty hers.

As though feeling a pair of eyes on him, the man's head jerked up and he, as slowly as one can be, angled his head to Farah's direction. She couldn't stop the sharp gasp that suddenly escaped her lips, and most importantly, couldn't look away. He arrested her in her sitting position.

The male, now shifting his posture and resting his elbow on his right knee, his left hand on his thigh, the wrist flicked backwards so as to permit the sharp angle of his left elbow to point directly at her figure, slightly leaned backwards, and allowed his shadowed gaze to study her.

Farah blinked at him, and rather admired his sloped nose, the tip angled stubbornly_—_but that only complimented his muscularity. Her eyes dragged down to his full, luscious lips, and she had to swallow deeply to keep her eyes directed away from that area.

He had a scar marking the right side of his mouth, cutting through the thin specks of beard, and narrowing down to the curve of his stubborn chin. He possessed a sharp jawline and an angular face, almost angelic with a mix of deadly.

His skin was sun-kissed, indicating that he did, indeed, spend more time outdoors rather than indoors. Yes, free indeed.

But even with what was revealed of his face, she could not make out his entire face due to his angular hood. A shame.

Farah stared forth more than it was welcome and, noticing her mistake, hastily gazed down. Still feeling the male's penetrating eyes on her figure, she gradually lifted her lashes up and formed a friendly smile.

"Salam," she said, smile never faltering. Farah was learning the Arabic language, knowing it'd be easier to communicate by herself rather than bringing a translator with her every time she stepped outside. The word meant _peace_, and was almost instantly returned to the spoken party.

But this man did not return her greeting, no. He examined her further, as though memorizing every curve in her face, and then simply glared away. _Glared_. Even with his eyes hidden behind the arched hood, Farah still felt the heaviness of it, and slightly retreated back her own gaze.

Had she done something wrong? Was Salam not the right word to use while greeting someone? Still in doubt, Farah thought on.

The man simply rose to his feet and strode away. Even his stride presented unmistakable dominance and authority. He left an air of confidence in his wake, and Farah found herself slightly envying the man.

Clearly by the way civilians stepped out of his way like he was some kind of lethal weapon, she acutely knew someone like her father or, she hissed, Edwardo de Pablo, would quiver in fear before him.

And she really wanted them to quiver in fear of her.

Watching the man walk away, she didn't know how or when, Farah lost absolute sight of him. Shrugging, she got back to enjoying the city's tranquillity.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

Altair stared down at the people below from atop a rooftop. He was crouched low, the position blending him well with the darkness of the night despite his silvery outfit.

"Were you followed?" a rough male voice asked Edwardo_—_whom, from the information he'd gathered around the city, knew it to be him. The said man grabbed his overflowing belly and scratched it, saying, "Not in this life time." The buyer of the slaves nodded, giving his guards the order to take hold of the captives.

Edwardo opened his fat palm and awaited for the cash to flow down like rain.

Altair gave the scenery below a sharp look over, taking every individual and outcome into account. With his trained eyes, he gazed back at Edwardo, who was receiving his promised gold, and at the guards.

With de Pablo now distracted with the cash, the buyer with the slaves and the guards by positioning them in a straight line, the assassin knew it was the right time to act. And so he did, ever so gracefully.

Legs sprinting into motion, Altair confidently leapt down, his fall emitting no sound. When his feet made contact with the ground, his mind already calculated how everything would take place. Moving with skill and flexing with the shadows, he mercilessly aimed two guards in the spine with his blades. With a thud, they fell.

As did the other two who had witnessed the act.

And the other four.

"Assassin!" one guard at last let out, spotting Altair emerge from the shadows. But by then, it was rather too late. Altair silenced him with a punch to the throat, evidently crushing his trachea. The man gurgled, and the man fell.

Acting faster than the blink of an eye, he withdrew two more daggers and nailed six of the guards out. Still clasping the two daggers in his hands, he turned his attention on his target.

While Edwardo hid behind his four guards, the buyer hid behind his five. Angling his head at the challenge, Altair allowed a slight devilish curve to lift the corners of his lips.

He stole a step forward, and all the guards gripped their swords tightly. Without squandering another second, he run and, jumping, kicked against the surface of a wall. Speedily redirecting his movements to the guards poised before the buyer, his feet skimming across the rugged surface, he pushed forth, using the pressure against the wall to his advantage.

When two of the guards leapt towards him, Altair flew above them and flipped mid-air. Landing behind them, he instantly daggered them straight in their necks, drawing warm blood.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Edwardo and his guards attempting to escape, and acted quickly. Sending the other three guards of the buyer to the Afterlife, Altair sprinted forth, jumping atop a dead body.

He rose high in the air, right above the buyer's shocked face, and whipped out his Hidden Blade.

_Shink_.

Roughly landing atop his enemies chest, he pierced his sharp blade into his neck, sending them both to the ground. Sheathing back his Hidden Blade, Altair straightened. He took hold of the key and tossed it at one of the slaves_—_who were watching him with awe, fear, and gratitude.

Squandering no more of his time, he bolted into action, running after Edwardo's escaping form. Withdrawing two more blades from his boots, he nailed two of the guards to the very guard. They shrieked out in pain, and gradually fell to their deaths.

From all the way there, Altair could make out the harsh panting's of his enemy, Edwardo. He spotted his belly jiggle up and down due to the force of his run, and leapt up on a building. He climbed fast to the roof and quickened his pace.

It wasn't that hard to reach Edwardo. Or the two remaining guards. While de Pablo ran on land, he ran alongside him atop the roofs, his sharp gaze never leaving his enemies.

"Where did he go?" de Pablo yelled, holding up his belly as he escaped. The two guards tossed a glance back, didn't see the assassin's approaching form, and released relieved laughs.

"We lost him!" one guard naively informed. Edwardo sighed loudly, gradually decreasing his pace. Altair took that moment to act and jumped down from the roof, never once decreasing his pace, and never once showing any hesitation as he cut the throats of the two guards open.

They silently fell to their knees, and then their death, only leaving their corrupt leader standing. But not for long. Altair whipped out his Hidden Blade and aimed.

But before he could, Edwardo released a sudden amused laughter. The assassin paused midway, his brows furrowing.

"Oh, assassin." De Pablo chuckled, gradually turning to face him. "What a little, naïve assassin you are."

Altair instantly grabbed de Pablo by the collar and drew his fat, sweaty face closer to his shadowed one. "The only little thing here is the meaning of your life, Templar. Now, let me introduce my blade to your throat."

Edwardo's grin widened. "Did you really think I'd come unprepared for such a lovely night?"

"What do you mean?" Altair questioned. Edwardo chuckled louder. Then, everything clicked. Enemy. Ambush. Before Altair could dodge the coming attack, de Pablo abruptly gripped his wrists and kept him rooted in place. Altair bared his teeth at him, nearly gnashing them in the process.

The sharp point of an arrow slammed into his left shoulder, causing muscles to tear and hot blood to ooze out. Edwardo suddenly released him and stomped backwards, his ever present grin widening his red, fat cheeks. Altair growled low.

"How foolish," he said. "I expected more from an assassin. But I'll give it to you, you pest. You did well killing off the guards and freeing the slaves, because now I've enough hate to slaughter you. Hence, I won't. Enjoy the poison, assassin." De Pablo snickered, splaying his arms apart. "I hope it does _justice_ to your body."

Altair ground his teeth together as he broke the arrow's end, tossing the stick aside. His vision slowly started to blur, and his knees weakened, the poison taking its toll.

Grabbing his blade, he dizzily targeted de Pablo's figure. A sudden sheer of light from atop a building instantly caught his attention and, without a moment's thought, he threw his blade across the air and buildings and into the shadowed corner.

After a heartbeat, a body slumped all the way down to the ground.

"Oh, you got him," Edwardo provided with a sigh.

Gritting his teeth to stay awake and kill Edwardo de Pablo once and for all, Altair took a few steps towards him. His enemy shook his head and began walking away, never stopping but rather whistling an uneven tune into the breezy night.

Altair's vision completely blurred and his knees suddenly gave out. With a loud thud, he fell face-forward to the ground, his shoulder and body burning to dangerous degrees.

His lids slowly started to close, and as much as he fought to stay awake, his body refused to obey him. His muscles froze and, after a few heartbeats, his eyelids finally drifted shut and he was sucked into oblivion.

Altair Ibn La-Ahad, the grand assassin and Al Mualim's favourite student, had failed his mission. He allowed an enemy to escape. He, the son of Umar Ibn La-Ahad, had weakened to a shaming point and let a Templar run loose.

With rage unlike any other, Altair roared at the deafening oblivion, and fell into the depths of Hell.

-x-

**Please review! Thanks! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN**:_ I included religion in the first chapter, seeing as how it could give you a brief image of the time of that era to you readers. Here is the second chapter, enjoy._

_I do not own anything, just this story and the fan-made characters. I hope you all enjoy it! :)_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Two

1190, Damascus, Syria

"Ow! Careful, Sarah!" Farah whined as the female servant treated the bruise on her jaw. Her father avoided hitting her face, fearing that if he disfigured her, Edwardo would not longer desire her. But sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

"I'm sincerely sorry, my Lady," Sarah apologized in her Arabic accent. Sometimes, Sarah aided her with her Arabic and, thus, Farah mumbled out a, "It's okay. Just do your job and ignore my cries of pain."

Sarah smiled, patting Farah's swollen jaw with a warm, wet cloth. To Farah's right, Dania, her cat, yawned and began purring. She smiled. This little bastard was so lucky.

"Did you enjoy yourself today, my Lady?" she gently asked. Farah sighed at the memory. "It was magnificent, truly. The feeling of being free..." She shivered. "It's indescribable—but worth the fights and wounds."

Sarah nodded and silently gazed down. Farah frowned and gently clasped the younger female's cheek. Sarah was of eighteen years while Farah of twenty-one, hence the things that bothered Sarah affected Farah equally. "What is wrong, girl?"

Her servant sighed, pursed her lips, and glanced up at Farah. "Forgive me if I'm trespassing a personal topic here, my Lady, but... will you ever give in and marry Sir Edwardo de Pablo?"

Farah retreated her hand, earning an instant "I'm sorry!" from Sarah. She smiled, clasping her servant's hand with hers. "Never ever lower yourself to someone when you are worth more, Sarah." Her servant suddenly started sobbing, kissing Farah's hands.

"But... y-your father will beat y—"

"It's alright. As long as I'm standing up for what I believe in, the consequences can rot in Hell for all I care."

Sarah nodded, a pure tear skidding down her pink shaded cheeks. Her servant had auburn hair, green eyes, and a slightly tanned skin. Unlike her, Farah possessed an extremely long, black hair, big brown eyes, and creamy skin.

"That means you'll never marry sir Edwardo de Pablo?" she softly asked.

Farah smiled broadly. "Never."

"What the bloody hell!" her father's shocked voice rang from outside her room, instantly snapping the two females from their conversation and causing them to yelp. Heavy footsteps strode past her closed door, meaning her father's business was not with her. At that, she gradually relaxed.

"He was ambushed?" her father all but yelled at the—most probably—informant.

"Yes, sir. By an..." the voice slightly hesitated before answering. "An Assassin."

Assassin?

"Assassin?" her father suddenly croaked out in the dead silence, the fear evident in his tone. Farah slightly straightened. "How? Did Edwardo, dare I ask, survive?"

"We still do not know how but that the assassin had annihilated all the guards. And, yes, Edwardo walked away from the battlefield unharmed."

The disappointment in Farah was heavy. Why did Edwardo have to survive out of all? Fate was truly cruel sometimes.

"Well, why didn't you say so! My friend lives!" Her father thickly laughed. Their murmurs decreased in volume as they stomped further away from her chamber. She looked at Sarah, who was still staring at the door, and frowned. "He just had to survive, didn't he?"

"Did you hear that, my Lady?" Sarah was suddenly in her face, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper.

"Yes, I did. That bastard survived."

"No, not that." Sarah waved Farah's words away. "The assassin," she let out in an awed whisper.

Farah frowned, and pursed her lips. "Okay...?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "The men in the mountains?" she asked in an obvious tone.

Farah merely arched a brow at her. "Come again?"

"The angels in white cloaks?" Sarah pressed further. Farah slowly shook her head. Then, her servant gasped. "Oh, Lord. You really don't know?"

"Know what?" Farah instantly asked, her brain eager to learn all about these 'men in the mountains'.

"There's a rumour that has been going on around the city for couple of months now about some sort of secret organization. People don't have much proof of their existence, some think they don't even exist, but we believe they're real. Well, now I do."

"What are you talking about?" Farah questioned, her stomach suddenly churning.

Sarah nibbled on her lower lip. "These... men, assassins, they rarely come out. Oh, I don't even know when they come out, I just know that when the city bells give a loud ring,_ they _have been here. In the city. Anyways, when these men are known to be in the city, every nefarious criminal goes into hiding."

"Why? Are they that great?"

At that, Sarah snorted. "Great? They're invincible, or that's what I heard. Anyways," she waved her hand through the air, "I'll tell you the scary part. You'll never see them coming. They are one with the shadows and move with the wind. So, if they want you dead—you're dead."

Farah fell into silence. Then, "How did Edwardo survive then?" she asked.

Sarah shrugged. "Maybe his target was another man, who knows? Innocents don't die at the hands of the assassins, it is only the political leaders. That is how I see it. Besides, what gain would it come from killing innocents?"

Farah rose her eyebrows in evident surprise. "Wow." She exhaled. "Political leaders, huh? Edwardo is one and he is the vilest man to ever breathe the air of this planet, so...?"

Sarah sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps he wasn't on their kill-list?"

"Kill-list? How do they even know whom to kill? To know the backgrounds of these infamous men would require you to be a politician as well. You need to have connections." Farah found herself wanting more answers. The sudden brief image of a white-cloaked man sitting beside her flashed though her mind, but she quickly dismissed it, focusing on Sarah.

"Well?" she prompted.

"Hmm." Her servant tapped her chin. "Rumours have it they have some sort of a leader, I don't know. It is quite peculiar but they are devoted to that man and some cause. That is all I know from the rumours. We believe them to be fictional, so. Yes. I seriously don't have a clue."

"And yet you dig for more. Why, if I may ask?" Farah tilted her head to the side, examining her servant. Sarah smiled shyly, shrugged, and looked away.

Farah understood. Private. She nodded. "What is their cause?"

Sarah shrugged once more. "Whatever it is, all the leaders, at some point, will learn of them. And some not that prettily. They're feared and they're strong and everyone who comes face to face with one of those mysterious hooded men should definitely quiver in utter terror."

Farah frowned. "Why?"

Sarah eyed her intently, then, with her voice flat and monotonous, said, "Because I heard they even kill kings."

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

Hawk eyes suddenly snapped open, the wild pupils leisurely shrinking into a small dot. Releasing a burning breath out, Altair slowly rose from the spot he rested on. His muscles cried out in protest, making him grit his teeth in patience. His head hammered on, and his heart beat loudly in his ears.

He was confident he hadn't consumed any alcohol the previous night, and especially not on a mission, then why was—

Realization dawned, and he sprung up to his feet, grabbing his dagger. Only problem: he grabbed thin air.

Whipping around, he studied his surroundings. Book shelves, Persian carpets, a counter, the soft tinkling sound of water hitting marble. He was in the Assassins Bureau. The last thing Altair recalled was dropping flat out on the ground. Yet, when he ransacked his brain for memories, he remembered getting up and weakly walking to a place his conscious knew of. Had he come here in that trembling state?

His cheeks heated and he cursed under his breath. Such embarrassment. Such disgrace. He had lost to his enemy, had fallen before his very eyes, and now presented the similar weakness to his comrades?

Never again, he vowed.

With a grunt, he sat right back down, and realized he was completely nude except for the bandage wrapped around his chest and shoulder. He covered his lower body with a Persian blanket, and gently rubbed at his wound.

It hissed and whined out in protest, but Altair paid it no heed. He flexed his solid back, grunted, then gave his injured shoulder numerous rolls. Perfect. He could start hunting down Edwardo now. Only problem: his clothes were nowhere to be seen.

What irritated him the most was the absence of his precious weapons. An assassin never existed without his blades, and Altair was not one to wander around weaponless—not even in his sleep.

"Rafiq!" he called out, irritation lacing his voice. He smelled herbs and medicine. After a heartbeat, Rafiq appeared before an outlet, his arms crossed against his chest.

"You aren't leaving, Altair. You must rest, the poison still runs in your system."

Altair nearly scoffed. "I thank you for your hospitality, brother. But I have not come here to rest. Where are my belongings?"

Rafiq sighed. "You showed up on my doorstep three nights ago, Altair. I think it is wise if you'll heed to my requests now." Three nights ago? Word must've spread about him already, and Altair could not risk the welfare of the Brotherhood nor let Edwardo walk around a freeman.

He should, would, end his life. Perhaps today even, and save himself from further humiliation.

"My clothes, Rafiq." Altair growled darkly.

They had a staring contest for a whole three minutes before, finally, Rafiq sighed, slightly shaking his head. "I'll let you be stubborn for now, Altair. But mark my words when I tell you to be cautious of your actions tonight. The poison has travelled close to your heart, and if you overuse your energy, it will attack without warning."

Altair nodded in understanding. Damn Templars.

Rafiq disappeared behind the outlet and returned a few seconds later with Altair's belongings. "I retreated back your weapons from the battlefield. You can thank me later by buying me more Persian garments."

Silent, Altair took hold of his possessions and put them on. The room was filled with shuffles and clicks. Once every weapon was clasped tightly around his body, only then did Altair allow his muscles to relax. Without his armoury, he always felt uncomfortable, almost empty, and loathed walking without it—for he grew up in it.

Clenching and unclenching his firm hands, Altair gave his shoulders a roll back and cracked his neck. Nodding his gratitude to Rafiq, he strode out of the outlet and into the room with the small fountain.

Concentrating his energy on his legs, Altair, with a flexed jump, leapt up to the roof. He thought he heard Rafiq mutter a, "So much for not overusing energy," but dismissed it and run full-speed below the night's pouring rain.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

The slap of bare feet against the muddy ground echoed throughout the cold night as the figure made her desperate escape. Turning to a corner, and nearly slipping while doing so, Farah leaned against a wall. Inhaling deeply, the air scratching past her sore throat, she once again bolted into action.

The rain poured on hard, causing her red dress to stick to her body like second skin. A mewling sound came from between her arms, and she hugged the small figure close to her chest.

Dania released another mewl.

Farah had found Dania when she had first migrated to Damascus, and she had been the smallest thing ever, completely weak and fragile. After taking her in, she grew up to be meaty and strong, her voice loud enough to be heard from hallways down.

"Shhh... mother Farah will take great care of you." Dania struggled in her arms, no doubt trying to escape the pouring rain. She had wrapped her cat in a blanket, but it was almost already soaked wet, dampening Dania's fur. The little brat still struggled, leaving Farah no choice but to squeeze her fat body against her own.

Farah knew they had to find a good hiding spot or else it would all be over—they would find her. With her body trembling, teeth chattering, and legs moving, Farah turned to the right and entered an alleyway. She leaned against the wet wall in obvious exhaustion.

Her father had made a choice—a choice that was Farah's to make, just to be clear—and said that if she yet again refused, the pleasures of this world would be denied to her. Like they wasn't already.

Farah suddenly sighed loudly, really close to the edge of finally releasing the held back tears.

This time her father had ventured too far. Before, the option of marrying Edwardo was up to her to decide, and her father would of course _encourage_ the right answer from her lips so as to get his share from de Pablo's wealth, but now, knowing that Farah would not easily cave in, he had decided it himself. He concluded that she _will _marry Edwardo, whether her answer was in the affirmative or not.

And that was the sole reason why she was here, shivering and panting to death just to avoid marrying that bastard. After realizing that Edwardo nearly died by the hands of an assassin, Farah apparently should not wait any longer. And, thus, her father single-handedly wrecked her life.

But Sarah, who had overheard their _conversation_, helped Farah escape her fated future. She had planned—and made sure—that Farah would not be stopped or spotted when she fled the palace grounds at midnight.

And now she was running for her life.

What still tugged at Farah's chest was the fact that Sarah could pay for this crime with her head if they ever found out she was involved. But when she voiced her worry, Sarah had just smiled, saying it was worth it.

Her respect for Sarah grew by each passing second.

But, unfortunately, the word of her escape had reached her father, and now she had around eight guards on her tail, all eager to hunt her down like a dog and bring her forth to her father.

How? Who told him?

Breathing in deeply to keep the heat within her body running, Farah hastily glanced around. The alleyway was a decent size, and a few boxes lined up in one corner. Ignoring them, she focused on the half wall that rose before her, the cement separating the alley from the property of another civilian's home. It appeared climbable.

She could prop herself up on the roof and avoid being spotted. She could do it. Making up her mind, Farah prepared to bolt into action.

Tightly tying the cloth that held Dania close around her shoulder and waist, Farah made a run for it. With a powerful jump, she clasped the edge of the wall and urgently tried to pull herself up.

Tried—but failed. Miserably.

Her hands slipped due to the rain, causing them to scratch against the rough surface of the wall, and her body fell to ground in a painful _thwack_!

Huffing and shivering, she rose back to her feet and tried again. And again. And failed.

"C-Come on, Come o-on." She violently trembled, her limbs shaking. The base of her shoes had torn in the chase, hence her feet were numbed due to the brutality of the weather. Her dark hair was dripping wet, and it stuck to her revealed cheeks and neck, causing her skin to slightly itch.

Hugging Dania close and making sure she wouldn't slam against the wall when Farah jumped, she bolted into action and confidently jumped high—only to kiss the ground rather too passionately.

Groaning, Farah once again stood up and rubbed her aching back. Her skin had gone so numb and solid cold, with the harsh wind mercilessly whipping against her exposed skin, that she no longer could feel anything. And if she did, it hurt her more than it possibly should have.

Suddenly, reverberating with the thundering rain, the numerous splash of boots against the wet earth echoed into the night—and they sounded awfully close.

Breath hitched in her throat; Farah stood frozen for a few seconds. Then, she ran to the wall and desperately tried to climb it. She earned a few more scratches on her body, and helplessly slipped down onto the ground.

No, she thought panicked. No, please. Don't let them see me, don't let them see me, don't let me freaking see me. She would not let Sarah's efforts go to waste, no. She would fight. And climb. But mainly fight and stay her ground.

Knowing that they'd easily spot her if she run out of the alleyway, Farah knew her only hope was to go over the wall. She turned on her heels and once more tried to climb that bastard.

How ironic when she always thought there was an invisible wall standing between her and freedom, there was an actual wall standing between her and freedom. Great. Just perfect.

"Hey! Over here! I see her!" a male voice suddenly broke out from the mouth of the alleyway, provoking Farah's stomach to suddenly yelp up to her throat. Her blood chilled and her body froze. Surely she had... imagined it, right?

"Over here, come on!"

Or not.

Panicking, Farah scrambled up the wall, her actions similar to one of a frightened cat. Footsteps resounded, and all stubbornly marched towards her direction. Their stomps echoed loudly in her ears, more provoking than the dark weather.

"Lady Farah," a male voice uttered her name. She instantly recognized it. Jamil.

Whipping her head back, she stared at him through wide, brown eyes.

"Jamil," she croaked out in relief. Surely he'd understand, right?

Eyeing him through the pouring rain, Farah made out his... grinning face, she realized in sudden fright. He presented the image of a true hungry man. For what, Farah didn't dare guess.

"We have, at last, found you." Jamil chuckled darkly, rain dripping over his face. Farah gulped.

"I'm n-not going back," she gritted out.

"Sure you aren't."

Farah shut her eyes in patience. "I'm Lady Farah and I order you to take your leave. Now." When she reopened her eyes, she found Jamil arching a brow up at her.

"You do recall that we serve your father and not you, right?"

Farah pursed her lips. Worth the try.

"Come here," he nearly snarled as he grabbed her forearm. Farah immediately released a frenzied scream out. Then, "Jamil, please! Don't make me go back to him, I beg of you! He'll... God, Jamil. Please," Farah softly cried out.

"He promised as a bounty, and I intent to collect it."

Farah stared up at him in utter disbelief, her mouth gaping open. Money. He wished to exchange her life for money. Why that...

"Is that what you desire? Money?" she spat out. "I have rich relatives, if you let me go, I'll ask one of them to pay you a great amount."

Jamil chuckled, then shook his head. "Nobody pays better than your old man, Lady Farah." True. Her father was a rich politician—and he wanted to be richer—who could buy the land of Damascus if he desired to. He was a monster.

"No!" she aggressively shouted. "I will not go back, I'd rather die!"

"And you probably will. Once you go back." Jamil tugged her forth, provoking her bare feet to scratch against the rugged ground. Farah winced.

"Let me go!" She protested, trying to wiggle her way out of his right clasp. "Let me go I said! Jamil, now!" Farah scratched at his arm, causing him to growl in frustration. "Or I swear I'll harm you."

At that, Jamil laughed out loud. "Aha." He nodded. She narrowed her eyes.

"Those times when you were kind to me, allowing me to pass the gates with no question whatsoever, what h-happened to that J-Jamil, huh?"

"He never existed. I only did those acts so you and I could," he flicked his tongue out and wiggled it. Realization dawned, and Farah paled. Her eyes widened a fraction in disbelief. The kind, cheeky Jamil had wanted to... she gagged, not even trying to conceal her evident disgust.

"You're s-sick," she gritted out.

"Nay, I'm not. Your father is." He leaned closer to her form, and whispered horrendous words into her ear. "And so is your future husband."

Farah gasped, then literally began to fully panic. "No, no, no! Release me, you bastard! Somebody help," she screamed, her voice piercing through the pounding rain. "I will not go back! I will never go back! I refuse to marry Edwardo!"

"Shut up!" Jamil shouted, dragging her flailing body forth.

"Help!" she cried out yet again, praying someone would.

No one did.

"Nobody will," Jamil fiercely whispered out, provoking Farah to stifle her cry of despair. He was right.

No one would... she was to go back... was to be beaten, punished. She was to marry Edwardo and live a long, abusing life. Every breath she'd take would be a curse, a poison. Then, she'd have to tolerate Edwardo's harassments and go to bed feeling dirty... worthless. Dead.

No, no, no, Farah thought next. She would never allow herself to drop that low.

In that instant, Farah released the loudest scream in her life, the sound thundering louder than the pouring rain.

"Shut your trap!" Jamil roared out in annoyance.

"Make me, you hypocrite!" Farah evenly retorted.

At her words, Jamil stiffened. Then, he fully faced her, his grip on her forearm no doubt forming bruises. "Ow, ow, stop it. Jamil, you're hurting me," she hoarsely whispered out. Jamil didn't seem to care.

"You dare call me a hypocrite?" he hissed out at her face. Farah slowly shrank lower as his face inched her way. "You? The worthless tramp?"

She narrowed her eyes, but still retreated away from his form.

"I'll show you the errors of your way," he hoarsely made out, his suddenly heated gaze dropping low to her lips. Understanding dawned, and Farah whimpered. "Oh, I'll show you..."

Horrified, she refused to give in and attempted to pull away. "Jamil," she warned. His face inched closer. Why weren't the other guards stopping him? Why wasn't anyone aiding her? Suddenly, Farah felt completely alone. Abandoned. She was a nobody, and would always remain as such, she guessed.

Lonely, the voice echoed inside her head, causing her chin to tremble—but not from the cold. She was all alone in this. Unworthy of love, care and adoration. At those thoughts, Farah's inner walls started to crumble down and her chest constricted with aching, agonizing sensations.

She was tired of always being strong. She was tired of always crying herself to sleep. She was tired of the unjust treatment she received in return for her forgiveness and patience. God dammit, she was tired of it _all_. They ate and spat her out, and now she felt worn out. Exhausted.

When will it ever end? When will she _die_?

Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, and her sobs increased, shaking her shoulders as they did.

"Yes," Jamil whispered in content. "Cry for me, little Farah."

Disgusting.

He was disgusting. Her father was disgusting. Bastard Edwardo was disgusting. Everyone is! she nearly cried out.

Despite the helplessness, Farah still tried to push Jamil away.

"Stop," she whispered, angling her face away. He didn't. He leaned in closer. Suddenly feeling fury spike, Farah shot her knee up and aimed his groin. "I said stop!"

Jamil released an abrupt howl and toppled over, grabbing his middle. Only then did Farah realize what she had done. Gasping, she covered her mouth in shock.

"Y-You!" Jamil shouted in fury.

"I'm sorry," Farah lamely retorted.

"I'll show you sorry, you brat!" Jamil instantly straightened, and stomped her way. Farah abruptly retreated.

"Jamil..." she let out cautiously. His face was red with anger—and pain.

"Jamil!" Farah shouted, stretching her palms up before her body to keep him at bay. It didn't work. He took hold of her wrist and brutally tugged her forth. Farah sharply gasped, accidently swallowing some of the rain water.

"I'll show you!" he snarled, raising his hand high in the air—as if to smack her.

"Jamil!" Farah cried out in alarm, coughing.

Her wide eyes caught his hand whipping forth, in attempts to aim the soft skin of her cheek, and she hastily closed her eyes in cowardice.

A _whoop_ cut through the rain, causing a brief echo to drift to her ears.

She waited for the hard line of his palm to slam against her skin, waited for the aching sting but... it never came. Brows furrowing, Farah leisurely cracked her lids open, once again being greeted by the outside world.

The fierce pound of the rain against roofs, buildings and streets greeted her senses like a drumming song. Thunder crackled in the sky, causing Farah to focus her attention on the figure before her.

As the cold wind slapped at her fragile skin, Farah knew there was something odd at the way Jamil stood frozen before her, his hand still high in the air.

Confused, she gazed up at his face, and noticed the way his features were constricted in an agonized manner. Then, his lips gradually parted and a stream of crimson flowed out.

Farah's eyes widened in shock, and her hitched breath burned her throat. "Ja..." she started, watching how his armoured body slowly leaned towards her and fell on the ground almost lifelessly. "...Mil?"

That was when she spotted a blade slammed into his spine, the hilt designed as a feather. What... is...

Silence had befallen all; the only thing reverberating was the everyone's raspy breathing. Farah instantly stepped away from Jamil's dead body, and did her best not to start screaming like a psycho. Again.

All the guards unsheathed their steel swords and frantically scanned the area. Holding Dania extremely close as some sort of comfort, she leisurely began walking back. A sudden shiver run up the length of her spine—and it was not because of the cold.

Something was out there. Something dangerous.

She knew it. Sensed it.

_Run!_

Her inner voice shouted. Now's your chance, escape!

Dumbly, Farah stood rooted in place like a statue, her legs not for her to command. With her lungs frozen, she started eyeing the dark alleyway for the cause of Jamil's death.

And that was when she spotted a quick flash of white. Blinking, Farah eyed the spot again but found nothing. Sudden thunder crackled in the sky, and that is when she heard the scream of a man, his voice rumbling in sync with the ferocious black clouds.

A body in the far corner fell to the ground, and everyone whipped around in their places to face it. Utterly horrified, Farah watched the rain slap the face of the dead guard, and instantly stole a few steps back. Oh, God...

While all were distracted, another body suddenly slammed against the cold ground. Farah yelped. All the guards tightened their hold on their swords and awaited for the appearance of the unknown killer.

For once, Farah didn't mind the men guarding her. Weren't they?

"Everybody, hold your ground and keep extreme watch. It's out there," one of them informed. They all nodded.

Then she saw it. Again.

From the corner of her eye, Farah spotted that similar flash of white. Her gaze instantly snapped to that spot—but found nothing.

A pain-filled howl erupted in the night, but as soon as it was heard, it was gone. The body of the guard fell to its death. Farah covered her mouth in evident horror.

"Show yourself, coward!" one of the four remaining guards shouted. There was a quick whiz in the air, and Farah found herself staring at a man with an open throat.

The glimmering blade that cut through the guard's throat seemed to be also aimed at the other. The steel whizzed thought the rain and aimed an oblivious guard straight in the chest, the force of it causing the man to topple back. Then, as slowly as one can be, he fell to his knees and then face. Just like that. Dead.

Having a difficult time breathing, Farah twirled around in her place to find the killer. By God, she refused to die here, now, in an alleyway. She breathed through her open mouth, the raindrops wetting her lips. Through her spiked lashes, she searched for the murderer up on the roofs.

The sudden clank of metal against metal resounded, and Farah slowly found herself turning around. Two guards faced away from her, their bodies touching at the shoulders. Had they... done it? Did they get the killer?

Hope ignited in her chest, but it instantly died away.

No, no. This can't be happening. This couldn't be real. But it was...

The two bodies gradually began to fall backwards, their swords dropping to the muddy ground.

Farah's entire being froze while the rain mercilessly beat against her figure. But that wasn't the problem, no. Her eyes saw past the pouring rain and behind the bodies of the falling guards.

Inch after dangerous inch, the white figure appeared before her very eyes. _His_ hooded face was angled downwards, as if he was watching the light leave the eyes of his enemies, and then leisurely rose to meet hers. He calmly tossed the bodies to the ground.

Retreating back his sword out of the guards belly, he gave it an abrupt whip through the air, sending the droplets of blood splashing to the ground. The rain washed his weapon clean, removing all traces of felony and purifying it, readying the sharp steel for another slaughter.

Her life.

That was when Farah heard the cries of her inner voice, heard it yell from the depths of her consciousness. It increased in volume, finally allowing her senses to start working past her bodies frozen state.

The white-cloaked man calmly began striding her direction, briefly wiggling the sword in his hand.

Farah finally heard the word her inner voice was shouting at her, and quivered in sudden alarm.

_Run_, it was saying.

**Run**_**.**_

-x-

_So how was it? :D Let me know in the reviews! Thanks :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: **__Thank you for the review you guys! :) _

_Here, have a bite. _

What We Can't Have

_Order. _

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Three

1190, Damascus, Syria

Freezing rain pounded on the lone two standing figures, its hard drops splattering on the muddy ground and forming sprinkles of mist.

Farah watched the hazardous man inch his way towards her, and felt as though she could not glance away. Feared that if she might, her head would be rolling across the filth of the ground. But get away from him was a must.

Swallowing hard, Farah abruptly turned on her heels and ran towards the wall. With all her might and strength, she jumped, her aching palms slamming against the surface of the wall to heft herself up.

To hell with being careful. If it meant losing a leg to escape him, she'd gladly sacrifice it herself.

_Have to get away_, she thought near hysteria. He seemed—seemed? Ha!—far more dangerous than even her beastly father. And that was saying something. Her father was like the spawn of Lucifer.

"H-Have to get away," she unknowingly chattered out loud. Her body hanging rather awkwardly from the wall, she attempted her best to pull herself further up the wet surface, and tried to avoid squashing Dania to a pulp. The rain poured on, soaking her to her very bones.

Farah was worried for her body, really. She couldn't feel her numb toes or fingers.

Suddenly, the splash of boots against the small puddles of rain echoed from behind her, causing her heart to yelp up to her throat. Farah froze, and attempted to toss a quick glance over her shoulder but to no avail. Craning her neck to the side would request she let go of the wall she so dearly hung onto.

The boots stomped closer, every step spiking the flames of her panic. She pressed her lips together to stop a frightened scream from escaping. Helplessly dangling mid-air, and emitting awkward noises in her attempts to climb, Farah warily felt her grip on the wall weaken, and witnessed her body slowly slide down.

No._ Nooo_!

He urged nearer, too close this time. He was stationed right behind her, she felt his overpowering presence.

"Stop, d-don't come any closer." She warned weakly.

He was going to kill her, she just knew it. He would cut her throat or stab her in the back, maybe even—

Farah froze cold in her musings when she felt firm fingers enclose around her waist, the electrifying heat of them even travelling past her drenched clothes and into the depths of her frozen skin.

Was he going to twist her hips and dislocate the bones so she could never walk again? Wait, was that even possible?

But then the stranger did the unthinkable, shocking the perfect sense out of her. As she witnessed her dangling body slightly rise, Farah realized that he was not attempting to kill her but rather... _helping her climb? _

Brows furrowing, she felt her body lift higher as if weightless. She tossed a few confused glances back but, just like the previous ones, these were also to no avail. She only made out the strong round of his white-cloaked shoulder.

When her abdomen made contact with the flat surface of the wall, Farah quickly scrambled away from his touch.

She couldn't deny her body as it commanded she deeply inhale. Coughing, Farah covered her mouth with her hand. Then, she deeply began breathing in and out, trying to get back the breaths she had lost.

The white-cloaked man swiftly jumped up on the wall without the effort of even touching it. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly looked away, holding Dania close.

After a few heartbeats of somewhat awkward silence—the sound of falling rain the only sound heard—Farah gave up, and glanced up at his form.

He was standing tall, albeit his shoulders were slightly drawn forward, as though he carried the weight of the world on them, and his face was shadowed by the hood he wore.

Recognition suddenly slapped her right in the senses—hard. Wait a minute, she thought through her widening eyes. He was the man she saw in the Souk a week (or so) ago! Her eyes enlarged another fraction.

"Oh my God," she whispered, eyes never leaving his armed body. "It's... you."

He angled his head an inch down and said, "Selam," his fingers performing a gentle wave before his figure.

"What?" Farah blurted out, not really understanding him. Then, realization dawned, and she found herself wanting to smile despite the current situation she was in.

He was returning the greeting she had given him at the Souk.

Her eyes faltered slightly, unexpectedly spotting the dead guards. All amusement instantly died away as a wave of horror washed over her. She gulped, feeling bile rise in her throat.

"Y...You killed th-them."

"Yes." He didn't seem to hesitate in his answer. Farah didn't know if she should thank him or fear him. As if reading her thoughts, the white-cloaked man angled his head to the side.

"You needn't fear me, I mean you no harm."

"Right." Farah snorted, then stilled, pursing her lips.

"Why did you... kill them?" She asked with sudden dread.

"Would you rather I haven't?" He questioned instead. Farah frowned, not quite comprehending. "You could not have slaughtered them f-for me. You barely even k-know... me."

She arched a shaped black brow. "How did y-you even..."

Farah swallowed. How had he known where she was? Who was he? Did he follow her from the Souk? What did he want? What does he want?

"Your inhuman screams were hard to ignore," he plainly stated.

Or that.

Farah instantly blushed, then shook the shamed feeling away. Uneasily clearing her throat, she made out a, "Thank... you."

The cold wind and the harsh spikes of raindrops whipped against her flesh like a lash. She quivered, her limbs shaking. "What is your name?" she found herself asking. The man gave his shoulders a roll back, the action causing his chest to puff out and the cloak to hug his muscular form.

Suddenly realizing where her eyes were concentrating, she hastily glanced away.

"Well?" she prompted when he offered nothing but silence. Because his features were shadowed, she could not make out the expression he was wearing.

"None of your business." Was the clipped retort. She arched a brow.

"I hardly doubt that is your name," Farah scoffed softly. The male—oh, None of your Business, she corrected—stepped forward. Suddenly alarmed, she abruptly rose to shaky legs and nearly fell off the wall.

The sudden realization of her wasting her time came to her senses, and she cleared her throat. Her escape, yes. She had to get to the matter in hand.

"W-Well, I better leave now..." she murmured uneasily.

"You aren't departing anywhere," the man sternly said.

"Excuse me?" She frowned. "Why? What d-do you want?"

"Your devoted cooperation."

"Huh?"

The man sighed, reaching forward. He instantly stalled when he spotted the bump of Dania's covered body, and stared at it long in silence.

Then, "What is that?" he questioned. Farah patted the cloth and smiled.

"My baby," she said, giving it a cradle. "Isn't that right, sweetheart?" She puckered her lips in a kiss, and spoke to Dania in a mushy, childish tone.

The man seemed to pause whatever he was about to perform, and stared at her in peculiar silence. Ignoring him, Farah hugged her cat close, saying, "her name is Dania."

The man slightly tilted his chin up in acknowledgement, but that was it. No 'aaw's' or compliments. Although his response was blunt, it... didn't surprise her. He looked like a man of few words.

"So," she said, eyeing him and unexpectedly realizing he was a head taller than her. That was not intimidating her at all. Nope. "Why do you desire my cooperation?"

"Your fiancé, Edwardo de Pablo, I wish to put an end to his nefarious deeds."

Farah gritted her teeth in sudden anger, the hot feeling briefly chasing away the brutal cold. "He's not my fiancé!" She retorted. "And how do you know of him, anyways?"

"How I know of him is the least of your problems," None of Your Business stated. "Do I have your allegiance?"

Farah stared up at him in silence, cradling Dania and thinking it through. Edwardo to be put down once and for all... such a tempting offer, she nearly grinned. It mattered not how this male knew of Edwardo, or why he wanted the monster gone, no. The only thing that registered in Farah's mind was the finality of de Palo's life, thus the end of her engaged marriage. Thus her... freedom.

Freedom.

She'd be free afterwards. Farah didn't have to think twice about her answer. But, "If I refuse?" she found herself asking instead.

The man instantly whipped out a sharp blade from behind his wrist, the metal gleaming at her in the pouring rain. Farah gulped.

"I have done you justice by freeing you and your child from harms way. But doubt me not when I state that if you are not willing to aid me, I will kill you. I dislike wasting precious time, hence I'll mercifully ask you again: will you or will you not aid me?"

All Farah could think of at the moment was his voice. That deep, rich accented voice. Every word was clipped and aided by his stubbornness, Farah could only nod and stare up at him as he spoke with unrivalled authority.

But nevertheless, he sounded sincere in his warning.

"Female." His hard tone snapped Farah out of her musings, and she found herself blinking.

"Oh. Yeah." She nodded. "Yes, you have my devoted cooperation, None of your Business." She wanted that monster gone as much as he—if not more.

The man formed a low scoff at her words, and turned on his heels. Farah stiffened. "W-Where are you going?" She asked in rising panic, walking over to him. Her foot suddenly slipped, provoking her knees to slam down against the ragged surface of the wall. She softly cried out.

"Listen, I-I-I thank you for all y-you have done. Honest. Please don't l-leave me, I swear I'll help. Just," she attempted to rise to her feet. "Please."

Farah feared greatly that if the man abandoned her here, alone, her father would send more men to capture her, and all her chances at freedom would diminish. She would certainly have none of that.

He offered her no response as he kept on striding away across the length of the wall.

"Are y-you leaving me?" she croaked out behind his walking form.

"Follow my steps," was the blunt reply. Farah straightened to her full height, trying to balance herself on the narrow line of the wall. Gradually placing one bare foot after the other, she made her way to the male in a weak manner. But, before she reached him, her numb foot stepped on a sharp, angular bump, causing her contained balance to waver.

Farah yelped. The impulse of it caused her to lean towards the low ground, her feet no longer in contact with the flat surface of the wall. Horror swept over her, and she swore she felt her heart skip two beats.

"Oh my God!" she let out in the midst of her fall to the ground.

Before her body completely left the area of the wall, a strong arm abruptly latched onto her forearm, catching Farah mid-air. Almost instantly she found her footing, and hastily rooted her feet on the flat surface.

Leisurely, the male pulled her body closer, causing Farah to grab onto the hem of his cloak, supporting herself and, in the process, dragging him closer to her form. "Please don't let go," she mumbled out a plea.

When she finally regained her balance, her fingers still gripping his collar tightly, Farah released a sigh of utter relief. "Thank you." She smiled.

The thunderous rain pounded above them, and that was when Farah noticed how near their bodies actually stood. Her chest meshed against the hard line of his armoury as the handle of his sword dug into her side.

But most of all, she evidently felt the heat his body radiated, and suddenly desired more of it. It caressed her skin like delicious, toasty flames, seeping hot warmth into her cold body. Farah unknowingly purred, vaguely edging closer to steal more of that male heat.

The man instantly stepped back, out of her reach, and it took all of Farah's self control to not shout at him.

"Watch your step." With that, the man stretched and grabbed the parapet of the roof. Farah once again became vulnerable to the cold, and instantly followed the white-cloaked man.

"W-What are you doing?" She asked, examining his moves. He started climbing upwards rather too fast.

"We will travel atop roofs," he said without glancing back.

"Why?" Farah frowned, confused. The man growled. "For you are under my mercy, woman, I suggest you cease the irritable questions."

Farah huffed. "Whatever you say, None of your Business." She heard him emit a displeased grunt at her words.

"That wasn't a question," Farah immediately reminded him. The man stationed himself stably on the roof above her and glanced down, silently ordering her to follow example. She parted her lips to protest, say that she was a lady and civilized, but instead chose to obey. It was for the best, after all.

And wasn't she thinking of doing that before the guards caught her, anyways?

You can do this, she encouraged herself. Even when you have never climbed the roofs and could possibly fall to your death, you can do this. Okay, alright.

Clapping her hands together, Farah stretched up, placed her bare foot on a misplaced wooden plank, and rose. At the slippery wetness under her feet, her throat instantly tightened, and she found herself retreating back to the flat surface of the wall.

"What are you doing?" He patiently questioned.

"I-I can't do it." She shivered, looking up at him.

"You can and will. Now climb."

"I'm scared," she admitted.

"I care not. Climb."

Farah huffed, then crossed her arms against her chest. "I can die, you know?"

"It is only seven feet high." The man provided in obvious withering patience.

"Exactly!" Farah reasoned. "Unlike you, Mr. I-Can-Climb-Roofs, I like my bones where they are."

"You will hardly break a bone from this distance." The man scoffed.

"Well, then, you are clearly underestimating my weakness," Farah gritted out.

The male sighed, then, grudgingly, extended a hand down. "I shall aid you from half the way."

"Shall?" Farah repeated, slowly climbing up and reaching for his hand. "You will."

"Is that an order I hear from you, female?" He withdrew his hand. Farah had already climbed three feet up, and panicked when she couldn't see his promised help. "No! No, it was a plea. Now stretch it back down," she gritted out. "Please?" She softly added.

He drew it back down and, after a few sloppy climbs, she grabbed his waiting hand and felt her body being pulled up.

"Just because I aid you does not mean you can relax," he let out. "Now climb before I decide to drop you."

Farah gasped, glancing up. "You wouldn't dare..."

Behind his hooded face, she thought she spotted his lips twitch, but ignored it, knowing she had surely imagined it.

"Don't tempt me," was all he offered. Why the nerve of that man! Farah thought, and climbed the rest of the way up.

"You would drop a woman with child?" she asked when she arrived at her destination, standing up on the parapet and staring down at him.

"Yes." He plainly retorted, turning away from her.

"Hey!" Farah called out, but he ignored her. _Why that... _

She jumped down and jogged up to him. "Where are we headed?" she asked in a raspy tone. At her words, he halted, stared down at her, and briefly nodded.

In the next heartbeat, her vision went suddenly dark, and Farah found herself shut out of the outside word. "What is happening? Wait, I can't see. I can't see!" She panicked. Has she... lost her vision? Was her numb body backfiring? How would she see his luring shadowed face now?

Wait, that was not the point. How would she read the poetries she so dearly loved now? That was more like it. Oh, God.

"N-None of your Business?" She chattered out, twirling around. Strong fingers wrapped around her shoulders, stopping her.

"I have simply blindfolded you," resounded his accented tone. Farah slightly allowed herself to calm down. Her vision had not been lost, she sighed in relief. Has her face gone so numb to the point where she no longer could feel the cloth wrapped around her head? She gradually touched her cheeks and pinched. The sting was not felt until a few moments later. Damn.

"I'm c-cold," she hugged her middle, cradling Dania close. The man shifted and sudden warmth cloaked her shoulders and upper back. After a moment, she realized the heady warmth on her shoulders was his arm. Favour for a favour. Now, darkness in exchange for heat? What a sweetheart.

Content, Farah leaned closer, her attention focused on the heat he was releasing. She was in awe at how his body could generate even warmth at such a frosty night.

The man started pulling away from her form, but kept his arm resting on her shoulders. Farah nearly hissed. She wanted warmth! Like a moth, she was drawn to his light. "Don't you know t-that sharing is c-caring?"

The man snorted. "I care not, and surely do not share."

"Why did you even blindfold me?" she asked instead.

"To forbid you from analysing the area we are to set foot into."

"Are you kidding me?" Farah exclaimed, then groaned. "I'm practically new to the city, and would not be able to tell the difference between one street or the other if you were to make me go around it day and night."

"Are you really that incapable?" his voice sounded close to disbelief. Farah grinded her teeth together. Because he could—what—memorize his surroundings in one sitting? Remembering the fast fall of the guards, Farah didn't bother answering her question. Because, yes, he seemed like a man who could memorize the entire layout of Damascus in one sitting—if he hasn't already.

"Okay, I might've over-exaggerated my words in order to assure you that I mean no harm, but don't ever call me incapable! You do not know me enough to judge that abrupt."

Even from behind the cloth blinding her, Farah somehow knew that he had a brow arched at her. "I only said that because it is the only information you have provided me with your inane sentence."

"Whatever," Farah grumbled.

"What is your name?" He coolly asked. This time, Farah arched a delicate brow at him. "It is quite similar to yours," she said.

"Is that so?" he questioned in a flat voice. Farah continued anyways. "Yeah," she nodded. "But mine goes by Mind your own Business. Beautiful, no?"

"No." He plainly retorted.

Rolling her eyes at him from behind the cloth, Farah glanced away. He lead the way atop the uneven roofs, and showed her no mercy as he dragged her forth, not caring that she was barefoot, blindfolded and, not to mention, nearly freezing to an early death.

Even with his jerky moves—and commands, she rolled her eyes—Farah, surprisingly, kept up. At one point, he wrapped an arm around her waist and—here's the shocking part—_gently_ helped her descend down to a lower roof.

That was when Farah, once again, felt his sword dig into her side. She winced, pulling away.

"Your sword wishes to harm me even when sheathed," she muttered, rubbing her side. He offered her no reply, wisely choosing silence over her. Whatever. Grabbing the material of his white cloak, Farah straightened her position.

Her foot, the one she stepped that pointy bump with, throbbed in discomfort. And even then he showed no generosity!

"Are we there yet?" She asked for, like, the hundredth time.

"What did I warn you about these irritable questions?" He growled.

"What, are you going to harm me, assassin?" Farah chuckled. Then instantly clamped her lips shut, her breath hitching in her throat.

The male leisurely came to a slow halt, and the atmosphere around them dropped lower. Much deadlier. Pure dark silence befell them.

"Okay, wait!" She rushed out. Farah didn't know why she even said that. Okay, yes, Sarah had mentioned about white-cloaked men, and Farah had slipped out whatever was in the back of her mind. It was simply an innocent mistake!

In the pounding rain, she distantly made out the sound of a blade unsheathing. The sound taunted the blazing flames of her panic.

Strong fingers suddenly snapped at her forearm, surely bruising it, and harshly dragged her forth. Farah tripped several times, and even then he didn't slow down. She felt his anger spike at her harsher than the cold wind.

Farah was suddenly shoved forward, but this time, her feet skimmed over an edge. Her back was supported by nothing but thin, whizzing air, and when she tried to step back, her foot dropped low, meeting no solid end.

That was when she acknowledged the deadly situation she was in. That was also when the forgotten tears blurred her dim vision. Farah acutely and evidently admitted to the fact that her body was leaning mid-air and towards the unseen ground of the Holy City.

God, how she loathed heights.

"Please, stop, stop!" Farah frantically grabbed at his muscular arm that held her by the forearm with both of her hands. His body, his warmth, she couldn't feel nor sense it, and that provoked her panic to increase because that meant he was quite far and she quite close to tasting death.

She latched onto his arm as desperately close as she could.

"Tell me, enemy," he coolly said, his voice cold and distant, affecting her deeper than the thundering rain. Farah's bare feet slipped, causing her to cry out as her stomach leapt up to her throat. She barely caught herself by supporting her weight at the tip of her toes.

"I'm n-not your enemy," she weakly provided, breathing heavily.

"How do you know of the assassins?" He continued as though she hadn't spoken. "Take heed that I have a blade pointed to your throat and hold you at the edge of your worthless life. Answer honestly or you shall taste my wrath."

Like she wasn't already!

Farah swallowed, closing her wet eyes, and parted her lips to speak. Her life depended on the upcoming words, thus she mustered all the confidence she had left.

"I-I have heard of rumours about white-cloaked m-men," she refused to sell out Sarah. "People s-say you a-are one with the shadows and t-travel with the wind."

"I care not about what the people say," he growled, his grip on her forearm loosening.

"Okay, okay!" Farah rushed out. "M-My... father," she said, and didn't mind selling his out. Kind of. "He is c-close friends with Edwardo... you know, the man I'm engaged to?"

"I know who he is." The man gritted out.

"Yes, alright. That one," she nervously wet her lips. "My father was informed about Edwardo's group being ambushed by an... assassin. I overheard their conversation, but did not pay m-much heed until... now."

Yes, now Farah wholeheartedly believed Sarah's words. People should tremble and quiver in fear before these men because they were walking and breathing weapons, thus making them more lethal than anything in existence. Farah still could not believe she was being held by one! Just yesterday they were imaginary beings to her.

"I-I promise you," she shakily uttered. "I'm not an enemy. I only wish to escape my fated future with Edwardo, and I'll do everything in my power to achieve that." She desperately yearned for freedom, and she'd do everything and anything to taste it once more.

"I k-know it came out of nowhere, but you are cloaked in w-white, sport deadly weapons, and want to annihilate a corrupt leader, Edwardo. I-I just... I just thought," her chin trembled as hot tears once again blurred her vision. "Don't let g-go. Please. I w-will aid you, I promise. I'm a woman of my word. I sincerely ask of you," Farah softly whispered. "Don't let go..."

Dead silence greeted her ears, and Farah barely stopped herself from erupting into a frenzied being in distress.

Slowly, almost smoothly, Farah was tugged back into the embrace of the four edges of the roof. She almost kissed the ground in utter happiness. She straightened instead, hastily turning around to face the man she did not see. Aside her evident fear, she felt anger swell in her chest, causing her jaw to ache.

"Don't you e-ever do that m-me again," she weakly warned the assassin. Wherever he was. She heard him sheath back his dagger, and almost instantly sighed out in evident relief.

"What I order, you shall obey." He provided in his husky, accented tone. "Am I clear?"

"Yes. Crystal." She grumbled as she wiped the hot tears away from her cheeks. Damn this! Allowing no more to flow, she straightened to her full height, tilted her chin up in stubbornness, and said, "Before we start the mission, I want a hot, hot, _hooot_ bath. Deal?"

"You are in no state to spark a bargain, but I shall allow it."

"Good." Farah nodded, lifting her hand up. Even when he threatened to throw her off a roof, she waited for him to take hold of it and lead her.

"What?" He questioned.

"Grab my hand and lead the way, perhaps?" Farah arched a brow.

Firm fingers gradually clasped her hand, and tightened their hold. She heard him emit barely audible scoff. She almost smiled.

Wait, smiled? After he had—dare she mention again?—almost killed her? She really needed that bath, and nearly performed a happy dance at the mere thought of the hot, burning water washing over her cold form, its liquid pure and fresh.

"You drool, woman." The assassin provided with a frown to his voice.

"So?" She offered back. He ignored her and lead them to their destination in that jerky, merciless way of his—albeit this time he was rougher than before. Whatever, she thought. I just want to reach that bath.

But she still could not really comprehend the fact that she came face to face with one of the infamous Assassins Sarah was so fund of—and survived.

Farah could only hope she survived after their mission—even if she didn't know what would befall her afterwards.

**-x- **

_**AN:**__ Type your reviews in that cute little box below, and let me know what you think! :) Good day, readers. You keep me inspired. Really._


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** _It's kind of funny to me, really, when I decide to start writing. The first time I posted my story here, I had to move out of the country I lived in and sell my laptop, so I stopped. The next, when I did get a laptop, my younger brother dropped it, crashing the screen, so I stopped yet again. Now, I'm here yet again with a new laptop in my possession. I really hope this one lasts for, like, ever. Now can I get an amen_

_Enjoy. :)_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Four

1190, Damascus, Syria

Altair Ibn La-Ahad sat at a table on the floor with a paper and feather-pen in his possession. He scribbled the inky point across the rough surface of the sheet, leaving wet connected words in its wake. The letters were no doubt coded, thus preventing his enemies of ever comprehending them.

He was almost finished, would have finished a long time ago if it weren't for the female's endless singing.

"Oh beautiful sun, how you s_hiii_ne," her voice echoed through the door of the hamam and across the chamber he resided in.

Altair shut his eyes in weariness and knew that the woman was making up the words as she sang along, because no poet, much less a scholar, would choose to use such inane verses. His grip on the feather tightened and forth he wrote.

"Shine upon me with your light, for there is nothing lovelier than your sight," she interrupted yet again.

Patience is a great virtue, Altair reminded himself.

"Oh light!"

Oh, Lord. He prayed for control. One more word about the sun and he would toss her out onto the streets to endure the harsh rays of the burning star and make her realize how _lovely_ it could be.

At last Altair finished writing his coded letter to Al Mualim, informing him about the change of strategies, and folded the sheet into two. Sealing it, he rose from his position on the floor and padded over to the messenger bird poised before the open window.

"Sweet Darcy, tell me how you can be so… so... uh," the unsure voice of the female resounded, then fell into dead silence. Not even the splash of water was heard.

Altair closed his eyes in bliss at the heavenly silence, and took that brief moment to relax. Reopening his eyes, he strapped the letter to the ankle of the messenger bird and calmly said, "Fly to Masyaf."

With a cry, it flapped its feathery wings and soared high above the buildings and into the sky. Altair studied the dark, starless sky, and spotted a pale feather gently twirl its way down to his side. He picked it up and run his thumb over its lax surface.

"Hn," he emitted softly before releasing it and withdrawing back to the coolness of the chamber. They were in the Assassins Bureau, preparing for their mission. Well, he was. The female had entered the hamam four (or so) hours ago and still had not emerged.

A sudden mewl from below snapped Altair from his light thoughts. He glanced down. Dania, the female's _baby_, purred against his ankles and glanced up at him through bright green eyes. Altair would admit that when 'Mind Your Own Business' unknotted the cloth and released the animal out, he did a double-take. She had simply surprised him.

And he shunned surprises.

Silently, he moved away from the cat and took his place at the table. As he cleared it away from the scrolls, ink and papers, Altair discerned the woman was still silent. Perhaps she realized how horrific her singing was?

A man could always hope. He tsked.

As though hearing him emit the sound, the female suddenly shouted. "Hey, None of Your Business!"

Altair ignored her.

"White cloaked man?"

He rolled his injured shoulder and flexed the muscles. It still whined and ached, but it felt much better than its previous stiffness. He would have to smear it with the medicine Rafiq made and change the wet bandages before it got infected.

"Mr. Huff &amp; Puff?" What did she just call him? "Hellooo?"

Altair worked his jaw in withering patience. Never did he want to whip out his Hidden Blade this fiercely before.

"Listen, I know you're out there. I can hear you breathing."

At that, he scoffed. As well-trained as he was, Altair could sneeze without emitting another sound.

"Okay, okay, fine. I can't." She admitted in defeat. "But can you tell me what rhymes with Darcy? My mind can't think of anything at the moment." Only at the moment? He jeered yet again.

"Perhaps get out?" He calmly offered. He heard a feminine chuckle echo from inside the hamam.

"Nice try. But I'm serious," she whined. Altair fused his lashes together. "As am I."

Silence.

Then, "But... the water is so warm and nice and utterly—"

"Get out."

"Fine," came her grumbled retort. Not after a while, Altair's ears twitched as he heard the splash of water, bare feet padding over the wooden floor, and the shuffling of clothing. After a few minutes, the female emerged from the hamam, leaving steam in her wake.

Now, her skin was a healthy pink, her extremely long hair damp, and her clothes crisp and dry. She sported the black slacks and wide blue tunic the Rafiq had given her when they invaded the Bureau. A Persian cartouche shawl was draped over her shoulders and down until her thighs—as long as that glossy hair of hers.

Altair sniffed the air and caught the scent of honey and sweet jasmine. They possessed no soaps for females, perhaps she got her own? Even when he grimaced at the sweet scent, his mouth unconsciously watered. That was when Altair noted how focused he was on her.

Growling, he straightened, putting an end to his useless, inane musings.

"You can go in now." She smiled. Altair glared away from her form and, without another word, bypassed her and entered the hamam.

"Enjoy," he heard her mutter. Ignoring her, Altair stripped himself bare from the Creed's attire, and filled the tub with hot, burning water heated from the wide hearth. He slipped inside.

The water burned his skin, earning a pleased hiss from him. His skin was turning red but Altair paid it no heed as he arched his head back, placed his arms atop the tubs' sides, and sunk deeper into the scorching liquid like a lazy tomcat.

He permitted his muscles to unknot and relax and the hot water to chase away the night's brutal coldness.

Shutting his lids, Altair allowed himself to fall into a light sleep. Still as the scorching water, he rested.

After bathing, Altair emerged from the hamam and swung his hood forth, immediately shadowing his face. His hawk eyes silently examined the area and... found no sign of the female.

A sudden soft feminine moan broke the tense silence, and he found himself following the sound. It seemed to have originated from the back of the table. Striding over to the said place, he gazed down.

Through all the wide sitting pillows on the floor, he caught the sight of a sleeping woman. She had collected all the pillows in the room and made a fortress.

Altair's lips twitched, but he instantly shoved the humour aside.

Frowning, he straightened and left the chamber in search for the Rafiq. The female's mewling cat followed him, purring around his ankles and nearly tripping him. With a gentle rise of his foot, he pushed the cat away and continued his mission.

The Rafiq was seated before a table, all kinds of herbs piling on the dark wooden surface. Altair slightly recoiled at the smell. The Rafiq sensed another beings presence and abruptly looked up. Spotting it only to be Altair, he eased down and continued on his work.

"Brother," Altair greeted him, and sat down before the Rafiq, crossing his legs as he did so. Rafiq Kadar nodded, acknowledging his presence.

"Have you rested well, Altair?" he asked.

"Yes, I have." He offered in a monotone voice, but issued a low growl at the mention of his name. The woman still resided under the same roof, therefore the Rafiq should be a little cautious.

At Altair's reaction, his friend formed a small smile. The action triggered a flicker of irritation in him.

"I mean to talk to you about the female," the Rafiq spoke up, all hints of earlier amusement absent. He slightly uncurled, grounding the Rafiq in place with his hawk-like gaze. He knew what his brother was attempting to say, thus he waited.

"Why have you brought her here? Who is she?"

"All questions aside, she is meant to be Edwardo's wife. By using her, I mean to draw the enemy out of his hiding spot and kill him once and for all." Altair calmly provided.

The Rafiq nodded, but Altair knew it was far from over. "And she agreed to help you slaughter her future fiancé?"

He kept his cool as he answered, "Yes. She strives for her freedom."

His friend nodded yet again. "Altair—"

"My ultimate goal is to send de Pablo to the Afterlife. I am aware of my actions, Rafiq, and I will not upset the established order of the Assassins. If she were to betray me, I shall kill her. Matter of fact," Altair eyed the Rafiq after bluntly interrupting him, "I shall kill her after the missions success. I refuse to leave loose-ends."

A sudden, unexpected feminine gasp resounded in the room—or rather, behind him. Altair glanced back from over his shoulder, and found the female standing at the entrance. Was she not asleep? By the expression she was wearing, he instantly knew ugly things would follow suit. Before they could, Altair decided to end it.

"Female—" he started but the, "Liar!" cry from the lips of the woman stopped him. Her face was constricted with different emotions, but Altair could evidently make out the agonized signs of betrayal.

He worked his jaw. He disliked that look.

"You liar!" she bellowed yet again, but this time throwing something at him. A book. Immediately he dodged it, and briefly watched it slam against the wall behind the Rafiq—who was calmly working on his herbs. Why that old man…

Gritting his teeth, Altair rose. The female hastily turned on her heels and fled to the previous room.

"That is what I have been bidding to tell you," the Rafiq spoke, attention still on the herbs.

Ignoring him, Altair followed the woman inside. He spotted her at the far corner, her figure trembling with anger, awe, and fear. But mostly anger. Very well.

"Cease your inane whining," Altair coldly provided. She sharply gasped, then narrowed her eyes to tiny slits.

"How could you?" she gritted out. "How _dare_ you?" she next hissed. Altair examined her in silence. "You were supposed to aid me, free me! But you chose to betray me, like I haven't had enough of that already!"

She moved forth and picked up a pillow from the floor. "I thought you an honourable man!" With that, a pillow was hurled at his direction.

Altair didn't even budge since it literally landed a foot to his left. She tried again, but this time it didn't even reach him.

"These pillows seem as useless as you!" With another exclamation, she threw a fat pillow at him. This time, Altair had to dodge it with a mere lean to the side.

"Betray me now, will you?" She sneered, briefly reminding him of himself when Abbas argued with him. "Use me now and kill me later, will you?"

She grabbed another pillow, attempting to throw it at him. Altair grew weary of this game.

When she threw it at him, he used that moment to bolt into action and into her. Her eyes widened a fraction, breath escaping her plump lips.

With a _thwack_, he nailed her body against the wall with his own. Her body was meshed securely against his, and her chin forcefully tilted upwards by the craftsmanship on his wrist pressing against her throat—albeit not that harshly.

"R-Release me!" she stuttered out, her eyes widening, fusing, then widening again. This time a little bit wider. Okay, too wide.

Her lips parted but no words slipped out. He could feel her throat constrict against his arm, and felt the gradual rise and fall of her deep swallow. What was she—?

Realization dawned, and Altair abruptly bowed his head down, shadowing the features behind the silvery arched hood. But it was quite useless for she had already seen what exactly Altair looked like. He cursed inside.

"Y-Your… eyes," she whispered. Altair knew what she'd witnessed; the golden gleam of brown eyes, its appearance as similar to the ones of a hawk. It was not he who concluded thus but those who met him. They always ended up referring his sharp eyes to the ones of that Tetrapod.

"They… are…"

He caught her raise her hand and mildly place it on his cheek. Altair stilled, eyes locking on her shoulder. Why there? Even he could not comprehend. His brows furrowed at the sudden act, but he did nothing to _stop_ it. He rather stood in utter silence, his jaw set firmly. Waiting.

Slowly, she run her fingertips across the upper-side of his cheek, and exhaled, her hot breath fanning the revealed skin of his neck. He sternly gritted his teeth, refusing to encourage the hairs on his nape to rise. But rise they did.

"You have such beauty," the female softly murmured out, and he could not deny the lilt of truth her voice gave out. She surprised him (more) by caressing his cheek. Altair refused to grunt in approval at the sudden sensation. It had been so long… wait, beauty?

She thought him beautiful?

He was a killer. He was brutal, cold, and calculated. He was an Assassin.

Feeling his colder side upsurge and freeze the inane sensations, Altair angled his head up and, with the back of his left palm, offensively brushed her hand away from his face, his actions clearly indicating she was some nuisance.

"Allow me to clarify something." Altair coldly uttered, causing the female to frown at his sudden change of demeanour. "You are under my mercy, and I have your devoted collaboration. You have given yourself to the lethal wishes of an assassin, female. Know that my Creed does not acknowledge loos-ends; but discern that I loathe them. After your cooperation, you shall cease to exist."

The female suddenly shoved at him. Altair didn't budge, but let a muscle tick below his eye.

"You plan to me kill?!" She shouted in evident fury.

He merely nodded. "I have no desire to do otherwise."

She gasped, shoving him again. "I won't let you! I will live, I do not care!"

She tried to fight her way out of his hold, but it seemed fruitless for Altair's strength was one of a kind and rarely rivalled by few.

"Female, stop."

"Let me go and only then will I stop!" She punched his chest, accidently aiming his armoury. She softly cried out and snatched her hand back. She rubbed it with caution whilst glaring at him. Then, bowing her head down and preventing Altair from further studying her expressions, she let out a constricted sigh.

"I… just want to be… free," she murmured in a hushed tone, only for her ears to hear. But Altair heard her nonetheless, and something twitched in his chest.

"You should know that that by now we do not always get what we desire."

The female faced the ground in complete silence. A few long minutes passed before she said, "first my father… then Edwardo… now d-death."

With another soft cry, she covered her face with her hands and wept. Her father? Altair found himself unintentionally fisting his hands. It did not matter what her father did, what mattered was the Assassins Creed and nothing more.

Her life mattered not.

Her freedom mattered not.

Her cries… mattered not.

Altair worked his jaw at the situation. He disliked when females cried. They presented weakness and vulnerability; and such feelings must be destroyed, not acknowledged and embraced.

"Must you always cry?" He said harsher than he had intended. The female swiftly glanced up, her eyes red and wet.

"Oh, no!" she let out in mocking surprise. "I should be laughing right now, I'm so sorry." Then, "Yes!" she soon shouted, brutally wiping the tears away from her face. "I will cry! My life is hanging on the line, why shouldn't I weep?"

"Stop."

"Why? You do not like tears? Why here," she tightly squeezed her eyes to provoke a tear to fall. "Have some more!"

No longer was she sad, but she was now furious. Altair preferred this fiery side of her rather than the… weak side.

"I do not want them." He said.

"But you know what I want?" She pointed a finger at his chest, causing him to stare at it with an arch of his brow.

Nobody dared to venture to the path of pointing Altair in the chest, disrespecting him in more ways than one. Not even Abbas, because everyone knew what Altair was truly capable of. _And yet this woman…_

This woman dared to follow through that path; dared to point an accusing finger at him. Since he _never_ failed a mission, none ever faulted him, none ever would. Not even Al Mualim treated him with such insolence. This female knew not of where exactly she was venturing.

"Take your finger away before you lose it," he provided coldly. She instantly snatched it to her side and watched him with caution.

"I want my freedom, assassin." She stated with a slight upwards tilt of her chin. He angled his head to the side, and stepped away from her figure.

"What I order, you obey." Altair reminded her. She breathed in deeply, rubbing her throat where his wrist metal band resided a few seconds ago.

"I know that, I really do. But," she swallowed, "After the mission that I will aid you in—like I promised—let me go. I promise I will not speak a word about you or what I've learned. I'll depart somewhere far, far away. I promise. Please."

"Releasing you will release information. I do not doubt your words, but you are not an Assassin. You weren't trained to tolerate pain from an early age. If my enemies ever get a hold on you, I doubt you'd be able to resist their cruelties. You will succumb."

"They will not know I was involved!" She hopelessly smiled. "I'll cover my head, face, everything!" She offered desperately.

Altair sighed, knowing evidently that humankind loved life. Unlike him, who would die for the Creed's cause if it promised a healthier future, he'd sacrifice himself a thousand times and more. He'd deliberately choose death if it were necessary. But this female held no such devotion, no. She would do everything in her power to _live_ this life—like she had stated. And that would involve selling his Creed out if it destined freedom for her.

They both desired for liberty, but their intentions split the aim in two. He was born to bring justice to this corrupt world, and she to her life. Altair refused to let her selfish desires ruin the Creed's aim to create a better world for _all_. A world that did not consist of astray politicians, cruel leaders, and delusional Templars. Albeit he understood her need, it was not a simple decision to make. If Altair were to lend a small sample of freedom to her, he might as well be giving hundred assassin lives.

The Creed always came first and foremost.

"You ask for the impossible," Altair finally said.

The stubborn gleam didn't abandon her eyes. "I only ask for what is rightfully mine." She responded.

"When you accepted to assist me, when you could have chosen to leave, sealed your fate. Your life in exchange for hundreds."

"I chose to follow you because I didn't realize you'd plan on deceiving me." The female crossed her arms over her middle, eyeing him cautiously.

"You have heard of me, yes?" Altair questioned.

"Not particularly you, but yeah." She answered, frowning.

"Then you should have deciphered that an Assassin's life is to eliminate threats that go against his Creed. That is what we dedicate our lives to; we annihilate dangers that are poisonous to the people. When you joined to accompany me, you should have thought twice about my nature; should have, at the very least, taken heed of the risks you were taking. You did not, now you are to blame for your own foolishness."

"My foolishness?!" She exclaimed. "Mind I remind you that you whipped out your wrist blade and threatened me even then?"

"I saved you from harm, killed men that were not my targets—for you. I have their blood in my hands, not you. But doubt my skills not, female." Altair did not know how much longer he could tolerate this. He had rescued her, now she owed him. Yes, with her life.

"I did not ask you to kill them or… help me," she slowly let out. Altair suddenly straightened, angling his head to the right as he arched a brow up at her.

"Woman, you were screaming for help. Begging for it. Now you wish to state you desired not for aid? Would you rather marry Edwardo, then? Bear his children?"

At that, she gulped. Then flushed a bright red. "If it means living, then yes. I will endure their punishments."

"Their?" Altair frowned.

"Yes, my father's and Edwardo's."

At her words, she instantly clamped her mouth shut, her eyes widening in alarm. Altair stared at her, examining her through his hood.

"Never mind," she sighed out. "I'd probably kill myself after a few weeks of my marriage to Bastardo. I… I just wanted to be free, even if it were for a little while. See life through my own eyes. Experience joy," her lips formed into a dreamy smile as her expression brightened. "To travel the world. Be… happy." Then, her expression dropped, and in its place was gloominess. She began playing with the lower edges of her tunic.

Such innocent wishes, Altair thought. But life was too cruel, and those were just the dreams of a child. They'd turn bitter, and life would smash her hopes to a pulp—if it didn't already.

"What… c-can I do to earn back my freedom?" she asked suddenly, hope filling her tone.

An idea came to Altair's mind, but he shoved it away before it could take root. He ground her with his hard stare.

"Not a thing. Rest now, we will depart at the break of dawn." With that, he turned on his heels and left the woman all by herself, evidently aware of the silent sobs that would follow soon after his departure.

-x-

_You idiot! You fool! You… you… argh!_ Farah swept her fingers through her hair, and hopelessly slid down to the floor. She brought her shawl closer and her knees up, hugging them to her chest.

He was right. As much as she wanted to deny his words with every cell in her body, Farah knew None of Your Business was right. She had screamed for help. She'd been eternally grateful when he had rescued her from the terrors of this night, if not quite freaked out. She had agreed to aid him, would have still aided him—wrist blade or not.

She wanted Edwardo gone that much.

Soon, she was to be gone as well.

Witnessing him slaughter all the guards in mere minutes, Farah at the very least should have given thought to what exactly she was getting herself into. She had not. Now she was paying for her carelessness.

Was there not a way out?

Wasn't there anything she could do to gain back her freedom?

To have come so far, now she was to lose it all?

Farah groaned, burying her face in her knees. She felt her eyes burn with fresh tears, but refused to encourage the threatening weakness. She had been timid for far too long. It was time she fought for what was rightfully hers.

She would use everything in her possession, tooth and nail, to win this battle. She would gain back her liberty.

With that reawakened hope and fiery spirit, Farah gradually drifted to sleep.

She dreamt about a hawk soaring high in the cloudy blue sky, its gawking golden eyes searching for a prey on the lands below its shimmering wings. And Farah, deep inside, knew she was its yearning target.

-x-

**AN:** _Arent you just happy that you read this? I am. I'm also going to hope the next chapter will be up soon. Thanks for the read, guys! :D Let me know your thoughts in the reviews! __J_


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** _This is very exciting for me. Why? Because it's Chapter five! I've never written more than 4 chapters here in Fanfic, and now knowing that I had gives me butterflies in my belly c: Altair should feel honoured (just saying)._

_Alright. Enjoy. :)_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Five

1190, Damascus, Syria

Farah was woken up by the soft clatters of wooden objects. She released out a sigh and opened her eyes; the second she did, her nose was greeted by the delicious scent of food.

Mouth watering, she hastily scrambled to her feet and wiped at her sleepy face. Her stomach began rumbling low as Farah rubbed her heavy eyelids.

"Mmm," she grumbled as a yawn broke free from her lips and provoked her to stretch. Sniffing, she looked out the window and noticed it was still dark—if not for the roosters already starting their morning crowing.

The break of dawn was close.

Feeling warm and energetic, Farah padded to the bathroom. She washed herself up and fixed her attire before following the smell of food to the other room.

Again stretching, she stepped inside, saw what she was not supposed to, and shrieked out in alarm.

None of Your Business. Naked. Well, his torso was. But still.

"I'm sorry!" She closed her eyes and bit her lip hard. "I didn't mean… to. I just wanted food. Honest."

"Female," a man said in a hoarse, husky tone. It did not belong to Mr. Huff &amp; Puff. "Panic not. Come here, I need your aid." Did everyone here need her help? Well, it was only two people. Fine, never mind.

"For what?" she asked, brows furrowing.

"Rafiq." Another male warned. Ah, there he was.

"Wrap this bandage around his shoulder while I pour you soup," the old man said. She knew it was him from a few hours ago when None of Your Business brought them here—and when she threw a tantrum.

The man was wrinkled from age, possessed a black cloak and a white beard so long, Farah had the weirdest urge to braid it.

"Uh, it is alright. I'll pour it myself. Where is it?" she asked, eyes still closed. The old man, Rafiq as Mr. Huff &amp; Puff called him, sighed.

"Come." He strictly ordered. Farah found herself obeying the Rafiq; she didn't know why, but he sounded like a grandpa who'd whack her with his walking stick if she disobeyed.

She cleared her throat. "Can I… open my eyes?"

The old man chuckled. "Yes."

Gradually, Farah cracked her lids open and, facing the ground, trod over to them.

"Smear this medical substance on his wound and cloth it. I should not take long." With that, the old man rose and walked out of the room. Pursing her lips, Farah swept her gaze around the chamber, then, finally gaining the courage, glanced down at the patient.

He sat with his legs criss-crossed, his upper body completely nude, and his lower body supported by black slacks. A red sash securely wrapped around his waist, the ends swirling down on the floor and forming bands of crimson.

He faced the ground, his features blocked by his inky head. Albeit the strands were short—like a butch haircut—he still radiated the same authority that screamed 'Move out the Way or You'll Taste the Tip of My Blade'. In her case, 'Dare to Even Touch Me and You'll No Longer Have Hands'.

Clearing her throat yet again, Farah knelt down and did her best not to flush at their close proximity or touch him skin to skin. _Hardness to softness_. Not yet, at least.

"Selam," she greeted, and took hold of the bowl that contained greeneries munched together. What kind, Farah had no clue. As she clasped the bowl, Farah ignored the way his eyes narrowed, those long and spiky lashes fusing together in evident irritation. She dipped two fingers inside the bowl and was shocked to realize how soft the contents were.

He kept that glare up even when she swirled the greeneries together, lifted her fingers up, and brought them closer to his skin. That was when it hit Farah hard in the senses.

His body.

She stilled in her place.

He was pure brawn, the muscles of his body pumped up and tense; hardened by years of rough work. He possessed wide shoulders and angular shoulder blades. The flat expanse of his chest gifted her stomach with tiny quivers—which she immediately ignored—and warmed her cheeks. Her eyes landed on his abs, each heavily toned square seeming to scream out a '_Touch Me!_'—or maybe it was her brain commanding Farah to do so. She did not know…

All she seemed to acknowledge was the fact that she had never seen a half-nude, especially someone heavily built, sit before her in a casual manner. Her stomach released another quiver at this sight, bringing colour to her cheeks. She was just hungry, that was all.

He inhaled, disrupting her deep musings. Farah straightened with another clear of her throat. Fidgeting in her knees, she slid closer to the fat pillow he sat on, and cleared her throat _yet again_.

He was glaring down at his bowl of soup, and she knew her 'throat clearings' were getting to him. Well, the Rafiq should have let Farah pour her own soup. But, she furrowed a brow, it was odd how Mr. Moody—oh, lookie! Another nickname—did not protest further.

Why, were they worried she'd see something she shouldn't whilst pouring soup? Farah was about to dismiss the thought with a snort when it hit her. Yes, that is what they thought. That was why she was here, facing this assassin's wrath rather than pouring her own meal.

Fidgeting again, Farah gave her attention to his body, ready to smear the greeneries on his wound and get this over with.

But she gasped instead, her eyes widening in horror.

Scars, some thin and narrow while others thick and bulging, decorated his form in every manner; and she was almost confused to which wound should she smear this medicine onto.

"My… God," she croaked out, eyeing the deepest, longest scar that sliced through the muscles of his stomach. Okay, how the freaking hell had he survived _that?!_

She would have most probably died with just a slice to the arm—more from panic rather than the loss of blood.

Then, an honest fact settled in her mind, clearing all thoughts away.

He was a vivacious yet lethal warrior to his very core. He had something she didn't. He possessed a… drive. A purpose. And he annihilated anyone who opposed it, destroyed those who wished to destroy it—or so she thought.

But Farah, no qualm whatsoever, acknowledged the fact that he was, at the very least, living. Truly. He was free.

_I want that_, she thought to herself, and felt her throat and chest constrict. But, alike the scars he'd earned taking lives, Farah feared he held the scar of her life as well. She also dreaded knowing that it'd be he who'd decide whether she lived or died, all depending on the length of mercy he'd extend towards her.

What could she do to deter him from the path he chose her? He was no God, he controlled not the lives of the innocent. He couldn't conclude her fate… and yet, she was to still die after aiding him.

She clenched her jaw to the extend where it started to ache.

"When greeted, should the person not return the peaceful gesture?" Farah asked instead, her words a little clipped. Okay, fine. _A lot_. She did not desire death!

"If you listened more than dwelled in your musings, perhaps then you would've heard my greeting."

Farah sighed, ignoring the heat that rushed up to her cheeks. "Alright, let Miss Amazing do her job."

Gently grabbing his shoulder, she tilted it to her side, and nearly chocked on her own saliva.

_Seriously?!_

A huge circular scorch—which appeared to be a gaping hole before it was burned closed—clawed at the skin on his shoulder. It was red and looked angry.

Farah, once again, could not help but admire this Assassin's strength. No matter how many times he seemed to fall, he simply rose back up. Clearly Defeat was not in his vocabulary. But then, a distant thought crossed Farah's mind, and she couldn't help but shudder.

_You weren't trained to tolerate pain from an early age_, he'd said.

What exactly was done to him?

This mysterious man suddenly intrigued Farah more than anything ever had, and she didn't even know his name.

"Do all your scars have a story, warrior?" she asked as she began to gently smear the greeneries on his wound. With his free hand, he started to drink his soup.

"Every scar has its own tale. It is not simply earned if it did not have a purpose behind it."

"Never without an answer." Farah _tsked_ as she continued on her smearing, this time on the similar burned mark but on his back.

"How did you earn this arrow wound?" she asked. It was not an injury caused by a sword nor a small blade, for the mark was wide and almost circular.

"I received it at the night of my mission when I hunted down de Pablo," he confessed almost too casually.

She was taken aback by his sheer honesty, but said nothing. Then it hit her.

"_Waaait_ a minute." She gazed at his face. "That night, when my father was speaking of an assassin ambushing Bastardo's sick business, it was you? So, de Pablo was your target?"

"Yes and yes. But he escaped, and the next time I cross ways with him, I shall do justice to his body with my blade—like he'd wished to do to mine."

So, Edwardo was his target after all, Farah thought. When she was done with the smearing, she began to wrap his wound with the fresh cloth.

She pressed the edge against his burned mark and started to roll it over his shoulder. After a few wraps, Farah tore the other edge of the cloth and, dividing one string from the other and passing it from under his arm, securely tied it.

Man, was she good at this.

"All done," she said, leaning back. Her nose itched and she, oblivious to the medicine on her fingers, scratched it.

"You have my gratitude," he coolly retorted, drowning down the rest of the soup. He, clearly not bothering to be careful with his wound, put on his white tunic.

"Hey, speaking of gratefulness," Farah started, and her nose caught a distasteful scent. "Where is my baby?"

The assassin glanced her way and opened his mouth to speak but whatever his wished to say seemed to be forgotten as he stared at her.

Farah furrowed a brow, then slightly blushed when he didn't avert his eyes away. His lips twitched.

"What?" she asked, suddenly uneasy. He raised his index finger and tapped his nose. It took her a while to understand the meaning and when she did, her hand instantly shot up, wiping at her nose. Which, in her case, meant decorating her nose more with greeneries.

"Oh God, my face," Farah let out, and quickly rose to her feet. "I knew it was too early to celebrate my success in doctoring. Excuse me." With that, she rushed out of the room and into the hamam. She spotted the Rafiq in her rush, and tossed him a quick smile.

After washing up, Farah re-entered the room, and noticed how quickly the assassin had already dressed up in his silvery uniform, his sharp weapons all sheathed and ready. That, and the fact how he was toying with Dania with one of his blades.

Her white fur of ball seemed to enjoy his ministrations as she purred and rubbed her sides against the assassin's blade. He avoided to harm Dania with the sharpness of his weapon, but even then Farah couldn't stop the rush of dread that swept over her.

"Woah!" She let out, catching their attention. She rushed over to their side, and snatched Dania away. "Are you trying to kill my baby?"

"I was not," the assassin calmly issued. "I was simply giving her the attention she had been craving from me."

Farah looked at her cat and arched a brow. "Is this the first sign of betrayal I sense here, Dania?" She accused her cat, to which she replied with a lick across the mouth. _Why this little…_

"Don't ever go near this man again." She pointed at the assassin, who gave his eyes a roll. "Understand, baby girl? Or else mommy will be very angry." Rubbing Dania behind the ears, Farah released her and took her place at the table.

"Same warning goes to you." She narrowed her eyes at the assassin. "Even if I seem weak, I know quite a few moves that would put warriors to shame."

The Rafiq lowly chuckled—almost hummed—at her words, and continued reading the book in his hands. Her interest instantly snapped to the layers of yellow paper, and her brain hummed in hunger more than her growling stomach.

"What are you reading?" she eagerly asked. The Rafiq glanced up from the pages of his book and at her.

"Medicine," he admitted. Although it wasn't her genre, since she gave her whole attention to poems &amp; poets, Farah still felt intrigued.

"So you are a man of medicine," Farah stated. She got a piece of bread that was already cut, and began drinking her hot soup. It had beans, potatoes, and meat, and damn if it didn't taste heavenly. She bit into her bread rather too ferociously—clearly forgetting her manners—and moaned.

"You can say that," the Rafiq replied as he eyed Farah eat with a small smile tugging at his lips. She chewed, relishing in the softness of the bread and the soup's rich taste.

"This is good," she pointed at the soup with a nod.

The Rafiq chuckled. "My, child, you are a hungry one."

"I didn't eat anything since," Farah swallowed her food, and spoke clearly, "since, well, I escaped. We have dinner close to seven." The Rafiq gave a small nod.

The other assassin sat a little further, leaning back and resting his weight on one elbow in a carefree manner. His left leg was bent with his wrist flicked over its knee, the blade clasped between his fingers rotating from side to side. He was obviously waiting for her to finish fast.

Farah grinned. _Sure… I'll show you fast_.

Emptying her bowl of soup, Farah, smiling, asked the Rafiq, "If it isn't any trouble, may I ask for more? It was really well-cooked, bless your hands." What? She actually did yearn for a second-round. The Rafiq smiled.

"Of course, chid." He then stared at his comrade, tossing him a look. Mr. Moody stared back at the Rafiq from behind the shadows of his hood.

"Escort her to the kitchen, brother. Let her have her fill."

With a growl issued from the back of his throat, the assassin rose to his feet. He jerked two fingers at her, evidently ordering Farah to rise and follow.

Now it was okay for her to go to the kitchen? Maybe it was not to keep her prying eyes off their possessions, but it was to keep her guarded so she would not… escape?

They exited the counter room and were greeted by a narrow hallway. It was stoned and rugged, but the way it was decorated gifted it with a welcoming sight. Persian materials hung from the one stony wall to the other, creating rainbow of colours above their heads.

Farah found herself reaching for them, running her fingertips across their silky surfaces. She noticed the ceiling was quite high, hence she had to stretch to reach them, but the assassin was tall, thus he had to bow his head whilst passing through the flowing materials.

Farah twirled, running her hands over the silks, and released a laugh. Closing her eyes, she splayed her arms wide open. Farah didn't know how or why, but she experienced something akin to sheer happiness and buoyancy she'd felt all those days ago in the Souk.

Lifting her lashes up, Farah slowly eyed the assassin.

A gentle breeze swept through the open window at the end of the hallway and across the space, fluttering the materials above, and gently blew against Farah's face. As the materials above wavered, she caught them swaying and brushing the assassin's face.

He stood in place, not bothering to get them away from his face. Farah suddenly knew why.

It was the moment.

The moment that froze two beings in time and impelled them to stare at one another for no apparent reason, yet… giving them one that_ somehow_ _meant everything_.

When another breeze brushed past them and caused the silks above to flutter, Farah smiled at him. Truly, genuinely smiled. It was a smile that was unknown to her, foreign with its warmth-like spirits, and yet Farah knew she _had_ to urge it to the surface.

She suddenly snapped out of the moment, and blinked rapidly. The silks above gradually came to a rest. _What was that…?_

"Come." The assassin jerked his two fingers, motioning her over. Farah obeyed. She made her way to him, his sudden engulfing figure. He turned on his heels and went inside a room positioned to their right. She followed suit. It was the kitchen.

Farah again felt the similar smile tug at her lips, and felt content all of a sudden. She knew not what exactly brought the sensation forth, all she knew was that she'd not be smiling at anything or anyone like that again.

The kitchen was a small, comfortable space. There was a wide hearth and a rocky counter that possessed an opening where a small fire crackled and sizzled, still attempting to keep its angry flames running. Above the surface of the counter was a wide cooking pot that curved inwards, thus making the surface of the counter flat.

There were a few kitchen supplies stationed on wooden shelves at the corners of the room, and two wooden stools and table positioned slightly to their right.

Farah watched as the assassin walked over to one of the cabinets, brought a bowl and wooden spoon out, and trod towards the kitchen counter. He poured her a bowl of the soup, and while he was at it, Farah concluded to walk up to him and sit on the counter to his right.

Just when her butt made contact with the counter, he let out a calm, "Don't do that."

Too late. Farah's butt pressed against the burning surface, causing her to yelp and hastily jump back down. "Ow!" she issued, patting her stinging ass as if to put out an invisible fire. "Nearly fried me like a fresh chicken."

"The surface is hot due to the fire burning under this stove," he explained as he poured another spoon-full of soup. She watched as he did so and noticed how cautious he was on not spilling any of the liquid or getting burned. He then handed her the soup, and Farah carefully took it, unaware how she wet her lips and then bit them.

The delicious scent of it drifted to her nostrils, and she deeply inhaled. "Mmm," she issued, closing her eyes. "Nothing is better than a hot soup after being in the rain for hours." Opening her eyes and taking hold of the wooden spoon, she began drinking it.

The assassin stared at her in an odd way. "We can go back," he offered. Farah waved it off in the midst of her drink, and slid to the floor, pressing her back against the warm surface of the rocky counter. The action instantly caused her back to sting, but the good kind. She rather relished in it.

"I like it here. No worries, I'll be done in a few and we can start our little mission."

"Do not belittle it," he said, a bite to his tone.

Farah gave her eyebrows a gentle rise upwards. "Gee, sorry. Anyways," she took a spoonful of soup into her mouth, "tell me something about yourself."

Silence. Then, "What do you wish to know?"

Farah arched her brow. "Well, for starters, your name would be nice."

"Request for something else."

She sighed, thinking it through. "How about the Creed you've mentioned?"

"Another."

Farah growled. "Okay, Mr. Another. Do you cook?" She expected another 'another', but he chose to answer her this time.

"I do not cook, no."

"Oh." She offered, drinking her soup. "But do you know how to?"

"Yes." That was it. No 'Yes, I like to cook so and so' or 'Yes, how about you?'. Well, she wasn't surprised. A long silence befell them; the only sound was of the wooden spoon hitting the bowl and nothing more. The assassin had walked over to the wall opposite her—next to the exit—and leaned against it with his arms crossed against his chest.

"Say," Farah started, grabbing his attention. "If it isn't so personal, may I ask you a question?"

"It depends on what it is."

"Well, earlier, you said something about tolerating pain from an early age."

The man stilled. Then shifted, uttering a, "And?"

"Well," she drawled. "How old were you when you went through the procedure?"

"Why the sudden interest?" he said instead. Farah shifted in her seat, gazing down at her half empty bowl.

"No, it's just… guess I'm a little curious."

A long silence followed, and she didn't touch her food.

"Twelve."

"What?"

"I was twelve when I've been introduced to the ways of pain."

Farah's eyes widened, the spoon in her clasp dropping into the bowl and splashing the liquid. She slowly set her food aside and gently rose.

Twelve… so young… too young. No kid should be introduced to the ways of pain at such a tender age. The assassin slightly straightened, studying her every move in slight confusion. Farah padded over to him and, without warning, threw her arms around his neck.

"What do you think—" he jerkily commented but was cut off with her letting out a, "I'm so sorry."

"Woman—"

"Stop. Let me embrace you. Please." She croaked out.

She tightened her hold on him and felt tears burn her eyes. Somewhere deep inside, along the way, Farah could somewhat relate herself to him. Knowing pain from an early age, she from her father's beatings and he from training, Farah felt her insides tighten, constrict and scorch. Instead of experiencing the tides of endless happiness, warmth, and love, they've been cut off from the light; left in the dark to experience brutality.

The tears slowly started to fall, and Farah didn't know to whom, exactly, she was crying for. Perhaps the assassin, herself, or their fates. Perhaps for what was denied for them. Perhaps the death that awaited her after the mission. Farah was not sure, but she as sure as hell felt like drowning. Suffocating.

"It's so sad," she softly murmured out.

"Release me." He plainly ordered.

"It's just that—"

"Woman," he growled, and Farah heard him whip out his wrist blade. Sighing, she withdrew. "I'm sorry. Guess I need that more than you."

He jerked his chin towards the floor, and said, "Finish your meal and fast. We're running out of time."

Wiping her tears away, she nodded, and walked up to her food. After a few swallows, she was done. She placed the empty bowl on the kitchen counter, and faced the assassin. It was business time.

"Okay." She clapped her hands together. "Let's do this."

"Change into your previous attire, I'll be expecting you in the Meeting Room."

Farah nodded, and run out of the room. She went into the resting room and grabbed the dress lying next to the hearth with the burning fire. She swept her hands over the material, and noted that the lower regions were still damp. Sighing, she dropped her shawl.

Pausing in her ministrations, Farah glanced out of the window and to the break of dawn. The roosters were crowing louder and more, awakening everyone from their deep slumbers. Walking up to the window, she stared out, feeling her thoughts cloud her mind.

What was the plan?

What part would she play in that assassin's plot?

And why the hell did she have to change back to her dress?

Suddenly feeling lazy, Farah decided to stare out into the dawning morning. The air was fresh and cold, enveloping her figure like a cover.

What a hectic day it was, she thought, then sighed. Stretching, Farah released a tiny sound out. Deciding to exercise before changing, she did as she thought and warmed up. She was pretty sure roofs would be involved in their travel, and Farah didn't plan on getting her muscles strained today.

-x-

Altair stood next to the counter, waiting patiently for the female to emerge from the resting room. What was taking her so long? After waiting for another ten more minutes, he released a growl.

Making up his mind, he bolted into action.

"Patience, Altair," the Rafiq provided behind the counter, the black book of records sprawled open before him.

"I'm certain she fell asleep." With that, he made his way to the room and stomped inside, determined to give the woman a piece of his mind.

"Female, wake—" whatever Altair desired to utter hitched in his throat, and he, the man who refused to budge when his ring finger was cut off, nearly released a startled gasp.

Right before him was the image of the bare back of his captive. His first instinct was to glance away, and he did so, but that was all after he caught sight of the slender curve of her spine, her sinful curves, and smooth skin. Her muscles had budged and stretched as she finished throwing the wide blue tunic over her head.

At the sound of his voice, the female yelped, abruptly turning around. She kept her front hidden with the aid of the tunic and long hair, and shrieked out in astonishment. "What the actual hell?!"

Altair swiftly turned on his heels and exited the room before a pillow could slap him in the face. Just as he predicted, a pillow slammed against the wall behind him. "Forgive me. My mistake." He coolly provided.

He massaged between his eyes. Before the Rafiq could comment, he raised his index finger and said, "Should've been patient, I know." The Rafiq chuckled.

Altair leaned against the wall and waited for the female to emerge. Speaking of, she was throwing threats at him from across the room and how she'll introduce her foot to his ass. Her cat purred and mewled around his ankles.

"What the hell?!" Altair suddenly heard her voice next to his ear. He refused to cringe. "Uh, what were you thinking?!"

"I simply mistook the situation. I thought you had fallen asleep for you required nearly thirty minutes to come out." He reasoned as calmly as he could.

She huffed, crossing her arms against her chest. "You barbarian," she muttered. Then, slightly blushing, she asked him in a whisper. "Um… how much did you, uh, see?"

"Not much." Altair offered monotonously. By the plainness in his voice, she slightly backed away. "Okay. Alright. Next time knock!" She pointed a finger at him. "Or at least warn me you're coming in!"

"You have my word."

"Good! You're lucky my foot finds the ground pleasant, or else it would've been up your ass, assassin." With another huff, she bumped their shoulders together and bypassed him. He rolled his eyes at her inane move.

Altair strode over to the counter, and nodded at the Rafiq. "I have informed you of my plan. I still possess the feather you have given me."

The Rafiq nodded. "May fortune favour your blade, Altair."

At the exact moment he issued Altair's birth name, the female gasped and Altair growled low. Damn it. At their reactions, the Rafiq understood his error and sighed. Altair sensed Rafiq Kadar had done this on purpose; on what reasons? He did not know.

"Let's go," he jerkily said to the female.

"Uh, okay. But wait," she uneasily provided. Glancing at the Rafiq, she said, "Can Dania stay here? For a little while, I mean? Please?"

The Rafiq smiled. "Of course," he splayed open his hand, "I could use some company."

The female beamed. "Thank you!"

She turned to Dania and knelt down, tapping her nose. "Stay here and be a good girl, mommy's gonna come back soon." Her cat licked her lips and jumped up on the counter. Bringing her paw up, she began licking it. The female gave her round head a pat, and faced Altair.

"Let's go?" she asked.

Jaw set firmly, Altair turned on his heels and strode out to the fountain room.

-x-

**AN:** _Wow, that was kind of fast, wasn't it? Compared to my monthly absence, I say hella yes. I'm actually very excited, their mission has started! _

_Share with me your thoughts! :D_


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** _Ssly, I'm actually done with ch. 6 now. This is good :D And I really loved how you guys instantly reviewed right after my previous chapter had been posted; it made me happy! Thank you:_

_**Gena**_

_**Formerly Dragon**_

_**Chelsea-chee**_

_**Ronnie Simons (Ay!)**_

_**Nyx-Arae**_

_**Guest**_

_**Shadow Hunter678**_

_**Rinku-Chan 333**_

_**You guys are great, keep it up :)**_

_Enjoy! :)_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Six

1190, Damascus, Syria

Farah followed Altair to the fountain area, and couldn't help but allow a grin to curve her lips. All this time he was avoiding mentioning his name, but now... here it was, conquering her brain cells.

She did not feel victories nor favoured, simply content that at least she knew who she was dealing with. It seemed worthier realizing you weren't going to the battlefield with a nameless soldier. It simply put her mind at ease.

Altair.

Such a fierce name. Like him. She wondered what it meant. Probably something to do with being a controlling jerk.

"Follow example," he said, his accented voice breaking through her musings. Farah eyed him as he got into action. It never ceased to amaze her what he could do with that body. As he aimed the wall before them, Altair jumped and sent a swift kick against it. He then used the pressure to his advantage and leapt up, grabbing one of the open roof's wooden columns. He performed a backflip and landed atop the solid surface.

Altair knelt down and stared down at Farah, clearly waiting for her to do the same.

Farah released a laugh out. He was joking, right? Her, who could even trip on a flat surface, climb all the way up?

"Um, I'd rather use the door. Thanks, though."

"Climb." He commanded, refusing to accept any less.

"Surely you jest. Last night I couldn't even climb the seven ft. wall properly, you expect me to climb this bigger-than-my-life one?"

"I demonstrated. How hard can it be?" He sounded close to groaning.

"Well, excuse you, I'm no ninja here. Or, wait, I think assassin is what I actually meant."

"Woman, climb." He gritted out in obvious irritation.

"Altair, I—" before Farah could finish her sentence, he swiftly leapt down and was in her face the next heartbeat, his wrist blade unsheathed and pointed close to the pulse on her neck. Farah gulped.

"My comrade made the error of uttering my name, but doubt me not when I promise that if you shall ever take it on your lips, that would be the last time you'll possess a tongue." He lethally—coldly—provided.

Farah stood frozen in place for a few heartbeats, her breathing slightly shallow, then she straightened, raising her chin up. "I doubt I'll ever have a say in this mission of ours, so I'll be just out with it. I don't like you. Usually I love everyone, but you and your threats are really frustrating, ass—Ass—in," she let out with a sneer. "If you have a problem with me now knowing your name, rest assured. I won't ever take it on my lips again. It leaves a bitter taste, anyways."

Lies. It left her tongue tingling in the oddest way possible, as if her muscle couldn't wait to flex his name once more. But she wouldn't let him know that, obviously.

"I assume you are finished with your blabbering?" Altair patiently asked, not really waiting for a response.

Farah smugly smiled at him. "Oh, I am." _Frustrating man!_

Stepping away from his engulfing form, she twirled around and eyed the roof. Her eyes scanned for steps that would guide her up both easy and fast. For now, the fountain seemed like the best option. Great.

_You can do this_, she squared her shoulders, _you're a fighter_.

"Don't laugh," Farah said, tossing him a look from over her shoulder before placing one foot atop the marbled fountain's head. Slowly, she began climbing.

_Don't laugh? Really, Dovaros? _Yeah, sure. If it was her right now, attempting to climb up to that damn roof, she'd be on the floor, rolling with laughter.

But Altair patiently watched—examined, really—her, his face stoic under the arched hood. For some unexplainable reason, his hawk-like eyes on Farah made her more uncomfortable than the image of him laughing his stomach out.

"Stop staring," she muttered at him as she attempted to balance herself atop the fountain's head. She simply had to place her foot on small rocky crevices or misplaced bumps, and ta-da! That would've been reasonable, but you see, not all the odds were on her favour. Provoked by his concentrating gaze, her hand suddenly slipped.

Farah gasped. Oh, no.

Her contained balance was lost, and_ dooown_ she fell.

"Altair!" she abruptly let out, then almost instantly clamped her lips shut. Before her body could slam against the floor, Farah felt herself bounce and caught. Realizing she didn't smack the ground, only then did she notice how tightly she'd closed her eyes.

Gently parting her lids and digging the sharpness of her teeth in her bottom lip, Farah fluttered her lashes up. "Oops," she murmured.

She rested in the arms of Altair—who appeared extremely annoyed—and shifted. He glared down at her. Farah arched a delicate brow up and, tilting her chin up, dared him to protest.

Altair sensed her challenge as he, too, angled his head to the side, gazing down at her through the shadows of his hood.

Knowing she shouldn't have done what she did, Farah sniffed and, defeated, tore her gaze away from his golden ones. Damn those piercing, penetrating, and glorious eyes. Then, returning her gaze back at him, she pursed her lips from allowing a smile to escape.

He had caught her instead of letting her ass imprint itself on the floor. With a hop, she jumped down from his arms. "Thanks," she admitted.

Altair sighed. "Be cautious, female. I don't desire you die even before the mission started."

Farah slightly blushed at his words. Right. The mission. Why did she even start to think it was for a completely another reason? She didn't even want to contemplate what the other reason was, hence she ignored it.

"It only happened because you were staring," Farah defended herself.

"If I had not, you'd be lying on the ground right now."

"Whatever. This just proves I can't climb. I'm a lady, after all." She performed a feminine bow by swishing her dress to the side. At her words, he snorted. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Come," he commanded, jerking his fingers at her. As though compelled by an invisible force, Farah found herself stepping closer to him.

He shocked her by swiftly grabbing her waist, causing her to release a short scream out, and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Farah huffed, feeling his weapons dig into her stomach almost too painfully. He grabbed her legs and strode forth.

"Woah, what do you think you're doing?" Farah demanded, giving his back a brief punch.

"Saving you from further embarrassment. Now hold on tight."

"No, wait! Release—" before she could finish her sentence, breath hitched in her throat as he bolted into action and jumped up. He kicked the wall for needed pressure and, releasing a grunt, redirected his body towards the roof. The contact of his hands slamming against the wooden columns echoed across the room, and greeted her ears.

He stayed dangling mid-air for a few heartbeats, then caused his body to sway back and forth, gaining momentum, and hefted himself up on the roof's flat surface. Farah's long hair shielded her side views and only cleared an opening towards the ground, slightly making her feel nauseas. But as she felt her back press against the flat surface, the ground out of her view, she relaxed.

Farah glanced up at the bright blue sky; the sun up and blasting its golden rays across the lands of Damascus.

Altair straightened, giving his shoulder a roll back. She grimaced. Her weight must have added pressure and pained his injury even further.

"I thought I was going to die," she released a breath out.

He glanced down at her. "As I," he muttered, and briefly shook his head. Farah instantly caught the meaning behind his words, and felt her jaw drop in surprise. Did he just indirectly call her _fat_?

Just when he was about to step forth, Farah swiftly shot her hand out, and knocked it against one of his ankles, attempting to trip him.

And trip he did.

Altair's body jerked forth, and he toppled due to the disturbance of his body. But, much to her disappointment, he caught himself before he could kiss the surface of the roof. He whipped his head back and at Farah, his sharp eyes boring into her with shivering intensity.

Farah pressed her lips together, stifling an upcoming laugh.

She couldn't.

It escaped her lips, and shook her body with its intensity. Before his disbelieving look, Farah shot to her feet and run forward, bypassing him.

"I'm sorry!" she let out in the midst of her escape. Her bubbly laughter didn't cease but rather kept on flowing out of her throat. In attempts to avoid the assassin's wrath, she run across the roof in full-speed.

It's just... his reaction was unmistakably priceless; as if he couldn't believe she just dared to cross him with such manner.

Grabbing the layers of her dress up, Farah leapt across a roof. The buildings were only a few feet apart, thus she landed almost gracefully. She glanced back, trying to catch a glimpse of Altair.

Farah was panting, breathless, when her eyes roamed across the roofs in search of her captor. Her gaze skipped the uneven surfaces almost too hastily, finding no sign of the assassin. Her brows furrowed, and she had to pause for a moment.

Where was he?

Just when she thought about that question, a hand suddenly enclosed around her mouth. Farah gasped in shock. Then started laughing again.

"Funny, is it now?" he growled into her ear, his hot breath fanning her neck.

She twirled around in her place, facing him.

"Very." She made out. Before he could say or do anything, Farah bolted into action and sidestepped him, causing his hand to slip away from her lips. With that, she fled once more, and noticed how the ends of her silky hair slapped him in the face.

Her belly quivered, and she felt the odd rush of adrenaline. This time, when Farah glanced back, she caught him coming after her. She suddenly felt panicked, and increased her pace. He was reaching her rather too quickly and with ease due to his swift pace and long strides.

Oh, no. No, no, no! Excitement with a mix of dread swept over her body like huge crashing waves.

Picking up her dress even higher, Farah began to urge forward faster. It was no use, he would catch up to her in no time.

The cold morning wind whipped against her skin, causing her long hair to swirl backwards and bounce from one side to the other.

Farah gazed down and spotted her bare feet slap the roof's rocky surface. Since she didn't have shoes from last night, she felt somewhat embarrassed to ask them for one. Now she realized her foolishness, for they did, indeed, lend her clothing.

Whatever, it didn't matter now. She felt no discomfort, anyways. Okay, fine. They hurt and her soles throbbed, but Farah knew she couldn't halt now and massage them. Duh.

Noticing her legs move in rhythm, she slowly smiled. Quick breaths escaped her plump lips as she raised her gaze and stared forth. Roofs, uneven buildings, designed domes, they all whizzed past her almost too quickly.

The sun was out and about, blessing the city with its golden light. It hit her face, pleasingly warming her skin. With a sigh, Farah glanced up and caught the sight of a clear blue sky. It stretched wide and long, enveloping the lands and seas with its glamorous sight. She also spotted birds soar high above her, flapping their black wings.

Farah suddenly fell in love with this particular moment.

It gifted her with the essence of... pure bliss.

Fun.

_Liberty..._

At this very moment, she felt gloriously alive. She felt human, as though she possessed no care in the world. No responsibilities. Nothing.

It was just her and the chase.

By the way the wind rushed past her, whooshing against her figure, Farah felt almost like flying. It was odd realizing how free she felt now, being someone's captive, than she was back home. It actually saddened her.

A body slammed against her back, sending Farah toppling forward. She hadn't realized she had arrived to the edge of the roof, causing her eyes to widen.

The push against her back caused her to sway, and when she spotted the rocky ground, Farah freaked out.

"Wait, stop! Stop! We're going to—" _die_.

Her body flew past the barrier of the roof, and _dooown_ she fell. Farah abruptly shielded her face in fear. Somehow, in the midst of her fall, she felt her body turn towards the sky.

With a swift _whoosh_, she fell inside something scratchy yet smooth. Farah felt the substance drown her with its weight, and when she dared to open her eyes, she only saw black.

No, wait. Rays of sunshine seeped into the darkness through small spaces and cracks. She also felt a _body_ beneath her.

Longing to breathe, Farah pushed what she now realized as hay, away. Making room for her body, she emerged to the clearing.

_I'm alive_, she thought, and glanced back down at the body below her.

Altair seemed to follow suit as he also rose up.

Her head was a nest for hays, it seemed. "Blekh," she blurted out, scrubbing it away from her face. Brushing the yellow strands off, she moved to sit atop the soft hay. Farah then noticed Altair was as well covered in hay.

Chuckling, she aided in brushing them off his head and shoulders. Farah then noticed her legs rested sprawled on top of his, and how proximate they sat next to each other. With a loud sigh, she lay down on the hay and stared up at the sky.

"That was risky. But fun." She softly laughed at the memory.

Farah spotted Altair rise and sweep away the rest of the hay off of himself. That was when she realized something.

The fall. He had taken the fall. She felt a peculiar sensation tugging at her heart. Even when she wronged him, he still decided to show an act of kindness.

"We have squandered a lot of time. Consider yourself favoured for I have pardoned your actions." Altair provided in his monotonous voice. Farah rolled her eyes.

"Why thank you, oh Great One," she replied sarcastically. He growled.

"Rise." He ordered. With a whine, Farah stood to spaghetti legs. Her limbs wobbled and ached due to her running. "It is surprising I didn't have a heart attack for I barely even exercise," she grumbled, stumbling out of the stack of hay.

When she stood on clear grounds, she forcefully shook her dress, and gently whipped her hair, sending the remaining strands of hay down to the ground. They were damp and difficult to remove. Stupid rain!

"Ugh!" she growled out, giving up.

"Listen up," Altair said, gaining her attention. "I will inform you of your part in this mission."

Farah nodded. Finally. "Okay."

"You shall return to your residence and—"

"Wait, wait. What?" she all but rudely interfered. She heard him grunt in disapproval. Paying it no heed, Farah eyed him with wide eyes. "You can't send me back."

"I can and will."

"No," she suddenly blurted out, giving her head a shake. "No, no, no."

"Female," he said patiently.

Fear blazed hot in her chest, and Farah felt panic rising and clawing at her conscious. She tried to stay calm, there should a positive outcome. Right? "No." She violently shook her head. "I refuse! I won't go back, never! Please don't make me go back. Please, please, I'm begging you."

"It is part of my plan, you have—"

"No!" She shouted, hastily backing away from him. "Anything but that, assassin. Please, anything but that."

"Calm yourself," he reasoned.

"I can't! You don't know what he'll do to me." The image of her father's dark face surfaced to her mind, and her stomach curled in on itself in sickness. "Oh, God." Every beating he's ever given her seemed to remind her body for it began to feel their invisible force.

_A punch to her ribs... bones cracking... muscles tearing... blood coating her face... Pain, so much pain..._

She felt lost in those terrible memories for a strained cry escaped her lips. She swept her hand across her hair, and frantically gazed around. "You don't have the slightest clue... He'll d-destroy me, he'll... he'll _hurt_ me. I c-can't, just please understand."

"Who is that 'he' you speak of?" Altair questioned.

"What?" She croaked out, facing him.

"Who's 'he'?"

"My... f-father. He will punish me for daring to disobey him." _Oh, he'd beat her bones in_. Her fear intensified, almost eating her alive. God, what was she to do now? How could she go from being free to getting captured to being caged again?

She had to do something. Anything. Everything. She couldn't let the assassin drag her back to Hell.

"You freed m-me, and now you're s-sending me back." She fell silent for a heartbeat. Then, "Why?" she exclaimed.

"It is part of the plan I have strategized. It appears to be the only way to drag de Pablo from his hiding."

Farah's eyes widened. Why, of course. How could she forget? She was to be bait, and suffer whatever they'd throw at her until her very death. This was the epitome of disaster. She was, indeed, on the brink of panicking.

Farah shot her hands up and buried her face in them, shielding her features as she denied him. "I can't. I can't, p-please."

Silence. Then, "Do not fear what will not happen."

At that, she gradually raised her head up. "Wh-What do you... mean?"

He sighed, crossing his arms against his chest. "I want you to agree to the wedding and—"

"What?!" Farah exclaimed, jaw dropping in utter shock. "Not just no, but Hell no!"

"Woman, let me finish—"

"Why are you doing this? Are you working for Edwardo? Maybe my father? Or both? You've given me hope, and now you're crushing it! What are you... What do you... Wha... I don't..." Farah chattered on, then swallowed loudly.

She then felt her muscles lock in place as she froze, her eyes enlarging. "You are... working for them, aren't you? Oh, God." She covered her mouth.

"I do not work for them," Altair simply stated.

"Lies!" she shot back. "Your plans involve me doing things I'd stay the actual hell away from! I get it now. You, trying to act the hero and recuing me, then bestowing me hope at a chance at freedom, and now robbing it away so you could send me back to the monsters! What did you gain out of this?"

"Stop," he gritted out in clear irritation. "Talking."

"No, you stop talking!"

Altair took a step towards her, and Farah hastily backed away. "Keep your distance, assassin," she warned. He didn't heed to her warning, instead he stole another step forth. And another, and another, until her back hit a wall. She whimpered.

"Back off!" She shoved at him when he positioned himself a foot away from her. Altair gradually let his eyes trail down and to the spot she pushed him, before facing her.

"You have disrespected me far too many times," he growled low in his throat.

"I'll scream," Farah suddenly let out. She'd do it.

"No, you will do no such thing."

"Yes, I will. I'll scream." At her threat, he closed the distance between them.

Farah screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed.

A hand swiftly clamped over her gaping mouth, and she felt her body dragged forward. With one swift tug, she found herself inside the hay again. But this time, Altair was positioned atop her.

She struggled under his heavy weight. "Get off of me!" she mumbled out.

"Be quiet." He pressed his palm deeper against her mouth.

"Mmm-mm!" Farah retorted. He lifted his index finger to his full lips, silently ordering her to shush. Her brows furrowed. What the hell was he—?

"Did it come from here?" One male voice questioned right above the stack of hay they lay in. She gasped.

"I swear I heard a woman scream," another replied with a grunt. Silence followed.

"Nobody's here. Let's keep searching." Both men agreed, and the stomp of boots resounded. They decreased in volume and went further away, leaving Farah alone with Altair. It seemed their near-crash with the men slightly calmed her down. She closed her eyes and sighed in relief.

She shouldn't have screamed like that. Farah opened her eyes and faced Altair.

"I can't breathe," she muffled out.

"What?" he asked, not paying attention to her at all. He was still listening to the depart of the guards. With a grunt, she slapped his hand away. Finally he faced her.

"I said, I can't breathe." She grit out once she was free from his suffocating hold.

When it seemed they were once again alone, only then did he decide to rise from her body, giving her space to draw in air to her squashed lungs.

When Altair rose, the strands of hay that rested on his back, tumbled down on her. She brushed them away with unneeded ferocity. Some even fell on her lips, and she could taste their damped-from-rain flavour.

Altair calmly began to brush them off his figure, evidently aware they were falling on Farah since he _did_ still reside above her.

"Hey! Stop that right now!" She hissed. Once done, he sat back with ease, digging his elbows on his upraised knees. Farah sat face to face with him, acutely aware of how his knees brushed against hers since her calves rested between his spread legs.

Pursing her lips, she, one by one, began to pick the strands of hay out of her hair. "I'm sorry," she apologized.

"Hear me out," he replied instead. Farah stared at his hooded face, and furrowed her brows. "Don't ever imply that I work with that low excuse of a human, Edwardo. I speak the truth when I state I will kill him; and I grow weary reminding you your pledge of allegiance to me, thus you will obey me. My goal is to strike down that nuisance, and you will aid me. Understand?"

For a while, Farah sat in absolute silence. She felt like shrinking under his scrutinizing gaze, but nevertheless commanded herself to nod. He nodded back at her.

"Good. Now listen very carefully for I will not repeat myself. No more screams, this time, not until I'm finished."

She sighed. "Okay, alright. I got it."

"You will return to your residence and will admit your incapability in surviving the brutality of the street life. You will agree on marrying de Pablo, and soon appoint a meeting with him. Alone. Keep in mind, do not be peculiar about these acts. Take good caution of what you declare. I will keep watch, fear not. Once you're with Edwardo in your meeting, only then will I act upon my word and take his life."

Farah sat in silence, contemplating his words. Altair said to not fear, said he'll keep watch. That meant she wouldn't go through this alone. There will be an outcome out of this mess, and that'd be Edwardo's death. Could she trust him?

What if her death was somewhere included in this plan of his but he was not telling her? For all she knew, he could be holding knowledge of the time of her death, and she was to trust him? He didn't particularly ask for her trust, just her cooperation.

Overthinking it would not help, she'd just have to make it her mission to get alone with Edwardo, then everything will click in place. Everything will be fine.

By God, she'll make it fine.

Coming to a shallow conclusion, Farah once again nodded. "I understand."

Despite her agreement, a voice within her still cried out in protest, almost tugging at her nerves. She was eminent it had something to do with being alone with Edwardo.

Altair rose to his feet, and her eyes trailed after him.

"Will you truly be there?" she whispered out, not glancing away from his figure. Did he speak the truth? Would he really be there before Bastardo did anything vile to her?

At her low voice, he briefly turned and faced her. Farah watched his shadowed features, and the scar at the corner of his lip curve, as he said, "Yes."

Wordlessly, she stared at him. "I'll be there," he said. "You have my word."

Farah performed a short nod, still unconvinced. With a grunt, she rose to her feet, and staggered out of the hay. She brushed at her attire.

"You do not trust me," Altair suddenly said, grabbing her attention. Farah glanced up at him.

"No," she softly replied. "I do not." Then, she sighed out loudly. "Don't expect you will ever receive it, assassin. I've given you more than I could have given anybody else." She turned away from him, frustrated that her slightly damp dress wouldn't let go of the hays.

The unexpected sound of metal brushing against leather caused her ears to twitch. She instantly twirled around in alarm. "What are you..."

She saw how Altair clasped a silver blade in his hand, daringly pressing the tip of it into his index finger, but drawing no blood. He leisurely turned it in his hand, eyeing it in silence behind the shade of his hood. As though snapped out of the trance of his thoughts, he rose his head to look at her.

"Here." Altair outstretched the weapon towards Farah. "It is one of my... favourite blades that I have in my possession."

She eyed it with twinkling eyes. A weapon? For her? Really?

Farah slowly raised her hand to clasp it, half expecting him to pull it away and laugh at her naivety. He did no such thing. Clasping it, she brought it closer to her face for inspection.

"You lost me," she said, furrowing a brow at him. It gleamed even in the shadow of the alleyway.

Altair gave his hand a gentle sway before his figure, as though beginning to explain his reason. "I have lend you one of my favourite blades to reassure that I will return to cease it back. I do not ask you for anything, female, but your aid, and the fact that I have presented you a sample of my trust, rest assured when I state that I_ will _live up to my word."

Farah stood in silence, trying to digest his words in. He did not lend her his weapon to ask for _her_ trust, but gave _his_ own to reassure her of his promise.

Never had she met such an... honourable man. Despite her current state, she couldn't stop the respect that grew for him. Couldn't? Hell, she didn't even want to stop it. It was just something in this assassin that... demanded it without him even speaking a word.

Slowly she dragged her attention back to the blade, and nodded. "Okay, fine by me. Can I keep it?"

The second she asked the question, an abrupt "No" was released from him. Farah smiled on the inside. _Precious to him indeed._ Men and weaponry, she sighed. But nevertheless the structure was unique, the hilt designed as a feather, and not to mention how exquisite it gleamed in the shadows, proudly presenting its sharpness to her.

After her 'oohs' and 'aahs' ended, she glanced back at Altair. "Well, I have a question." She unsurely bit her lip.

When he didn't offer her an encouraging response, only then did Farah realize he was already patiently waiting for her to ask. "Oh, right." She cleared her throat. "It's really pretty and all but, umm, where do I hide it?"

Altair shifted, levelling his weight on only one foot. "Hide it beneath your dress."

"Exactly where beneath it?" she asked naively with an arch of her brow. Couldn't he be clearer?

Farah saw him make his way over to her, his actions casual and authorized. He grabbed her arm, causing Farah to stumble forth. With his index finger, he tapped her inner forearm.

"One of the best hiding spots." Altair demonstrated, looking at her. She blinked, taking in his unreadable shadow face. At the moment, he seemed more like a teacher than anything else.

After a heartbeat, he bowed his head back down. "For women," he traced his finger up, tempting her gaze to follow the invisible road he left behind, "They can shield it in many places. Here being one." He pointed at her bosom, albeit he didn't touch it.

Farah fought the instant rush of blood that darkened her cheeks, and kept a stoic demeanour. He was simply stating the hiding spots, that was all. Nothing too intimate about it, hence she refused to act all giddy and childish towards it.

The tip of his finger travelled on, leaving an unwanted hot trace on her skin.

"There is also here, the waist." He gave a single tap on her hip, pointing exactly where it was best. Her stomach released an uncalled quiver, slightly surprising her. Was she hungry again?

Altair continued on, lost in his own ministrations. She watched him behind her lashes rather than his examples.

"Under your arms," he uttered, giving the spot where the slight bump of her breast resided a very light tap. Farah swallowed at his bold example.

"Show me a place where it will stay well-hidden yet quick to withdraw if dangers were to reveal themselves," she asked instead. Altair responded her with a tap against his chin as his sharp eyes swept over her form.

"Here," he then said, gifting her thigh with two taps. Farah instantly whipped her gaze down, eyeing her leg. Now that she thought about it, the spot appeared to be the most appropriate. Even if her forearm was a good example, the blade would leave a bump, thus making it obvious. Her bosom was out of question. Her thigh though, she could swiftly lift her dress and withdraw it before anyone wronged her.

"Here," she mimicked his latest word in a soft murmur, her eyes never leaving the spot he presented.

"Yes," he retorted with his accented tone.

She nodded. Then stilled, her brows furrowing. She realized something she had not earlier.

"You speak English," she sputtered. She was eminent the shock in her tone caught his attention more than anything.

"Why, aren't you so observant," he muttered as he began striding towards the mouth of the alleyway.

Farah rushed after him. "It never crossed my mind. Not until now, really. I'm so used to people conversing with me in English at the palace that I completely dismissed the fact that you're clearly not of my household. So," she smacked her palms together, an eager smile tugging at the corners of her lips, "How do you know it?"

"Allow your body to relax, and act casual. We're about to blend in with the crowd."

Altair watched the streets of Damascus for a moment, a brief one really, before he spoke again. "Two guards watch the market. Three are stationed close to the building twenty metres away, and two more on the roofs. Be cautious." He informed her sharply.

Farah eyed him with an odd expression on her face, one that clearly spelled out 'How the hell', and thought if he was even of Earth. But nonetheless, she waved away his warning, evidently knowing she could blend in well with the crowd. She did it often when escaping her house for some peace time.

"No worries, Mr. Huff &amp; Puff, Mr. Amazing here has got it all under control." She praised herself. She did it often since she rarely got compliments. Well, since her father's abusive and her mother too quiet, she took the chance when she got it.

"Don't say that," he growled in annoyance.

Farah frowned, clearly taking offense. "But I am amazing," she defended herself.

"Not that, woman. Don't ever call me... Huff and Puff," Altair grunted in distaste before he started walking out of the alleyway and towards the crowd. Farah followed suit.

"Oh, that," she waved her hand in the air again. "But that's all you do."

He halted in his steps, his back to her. "My kill list proves otherwise," he lowly issued. Farah stood in silence, before she leisurely arched her brow up. Did she—what?—offend his precious ego or something?

He began walking again.

"You do not wish me to call you by your real name so how do you expect me to call you?" Farah questioned, briefly throwing her arms in the air in exaggeration. "How about Mr. Grumpy-bo-humpty?" she asked before he could say anything, and chuckled at the nickname. He worked his jaw in patience.

"Would you like it if I called you Sir Never-Nicie?" Lame, she knew it, but he was rarely kind to her! Aside him taking the fall and lending her a blade, he still snatched her only chance at freedom and would kill her afterwards, so what was the big deal if Farah decided to have her fun?

"Not a word from you." He ordered darkly.

"No, so I'll give you more than one." She stuck her tongue out, although he couldn't see it, and exhaled loudly.

Altair suddenly twirled around and was in her face the next second. "Does the tip of my blade piercing through your skin appeal to you, female?" He questioned with a dark growl in his voice.

Farah fused her lashes together. She was really getting annoyed by his death threats. "I don't know, does it?" She returned his smugness with a taste of her own. "All you seem to be doing lately is tossing me empty threats. When will you even act upon one?" She raised a brow up at him, challenging the assassin. That served him.

Altair's figure towered over her as he stood in a pulsing silence before she caught the corners of his mouth gradually quirk up, causing his lips to curve attractively.

Then, very lowly but with an authorized timbre lacing his tone, he said, "Soon."

Farah was taken aback as she stared up at him, staring still as he turned on his heels and began walking away. Her mind seemed to repeat his word over and over again, almost similar to the endless flying fists her father used to grant her. But what he uttered seemed to send the most powerful blow to her senses, causing her to stay stiffly rooted in place.

_Soon_, he'd said.

"Soon," she whispered to herself, the word scratching its way out of her suddenly tight throat. For some reason, she thought she had more time, more chances, but now... Reality sucked. She didn't have time at all. Why in the world did she think otherwise?

It just felt so gloriously far away, but now that the mission started, it wasn't far _at all_.

Farah felt mocked.

Death clearly mocked her efforts at trying to gain her freedom, laughed hard when she finally ceased it and lost it almost too hastily, but she felt that It laughed the most now, knowing It was closing in and she could do nothing to stop it.

Even success seemed to ridicule her, clearly showing her by the events that occurred in her life that she could never attain it.

Now that she gazed around, everything—from the way the people walked, talked, socialized, and even breathed—seemed to throw booms of laughter in her face.

Farah eyed her surroundings, taking in the grey and yellow buildings, the small huts, and the colourful shops opening and its merchants calling the civilians for a taste of what they got. Damascus was truly filled with life and activity; its beautiful land shimmering with light as if it were golden. From all the viewing, Farah finally rested her eyes on her bare feet, and gave her toes a playful wiggle.

The ground was rugged and hard, but it was warming below her feet, and that's all that mattered. She then slowly raised her head and glanced at Altair's walking form, and almost growled. Did growl.

How badly she wanted to turn on her heels and walk away from him and into the increasing crowd. How badly she wanted him to realize how helpless he was for losing her. How badly she just wanted to give it in his face, and simply disappear.

But she wouldn't.

If she were to walk, there was a pretty good chance he'd hunt her down like he was doing Edwardo, and send her to the Afterlife before she could utter anything. And Farah knew 'helpless' would be the last thing he'd feel if she abandoned him. He was an assassin, he'd definitely find another way to annihilate his target.

But most of all, to walk away would mean breaking her promise. She was not a hypocrite, nor a betrayer.

She was not her father.

Farah saw no other way around it, but that did not mean he could push her around, insult, or threaten her. She was aiding him, that was all. He had no right to press further, and she'd do herself a favour if she straightened up a bit and preserved the only dignity she had left.

Still eyeing his back, Farah walked—more like jogged—up to him. With a swift turn, she came in front of him, blocking his way. Farah closed the distance between them and stood on her tip-toes, putting them face to face. She made sure to form a mean expression.

Altair angled his head to the side, clearly amused by her sudden moves. Farah also made sure to put on a strong, unwavering demeanour.

"My life is clearly in your hands, I get it," she breathed out, and he slightly straightened at her words. "But know this," she narrowed her eyes and pointed at his chest, knowing full-well how he'd react to her pointing. Just as she suspected, he set his jaw firmly, warning her to take it away with his deep, dark glare. She did not.

"When you take my life, you'd be taking an innocent one. I am no poison to the humans, nor your Creed. I hope—no, pray—that when you finally see my warm blood coat your hands, spot the spark of life wither from my eyes, and watch as my body goes limp, you'll acknowledge how _murderous_ you really are. How shameful and cruel. I wish my death haunts you in your sleep, when you walk and talk, or even simply breathe. I hope it is with you in every of your waking hour, taunting of the cruelty you've showed to an innocent. And, yes, I am one no matter what you conclude. I simply want to enjoy the life I was born to, and see for myself its beauty and flaws. But most of all," she bitterly laughed at his face, "I hope you're proud of yourself."

With that, Farah turned on her heels and strode away.

-x-

**AN:** _As always, your reviews are most welcome._


	7. Chapter 7

**AN**: _Hey, guys! Sorry I didn't upload earlier, I moved (the surprise). Anyways, I'm going away yet again for a trip with de fam, so I wont be uploading for another month or so. Before I leave, I decided to give you guys something to remember me by :,)_

_Thank you:_

**foxxxduo, **

**DareToDefyMe,**

**Chelsea-chee**; _LOL, no. As much as it seems like I missed a sentence, I didn't. Everything is planned out and that conversation will take place sometime later. Thank you, though, for noticing ;D_

**Formerly Dragon**; _Things are about to start going down, but Im afraid you have to wait a long while since Ill be gone for some time :(_

**Guest**,_ and the __**others**__ yet again for your sweet reviews! I'm humbled! :)_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Seven

Altair watched the form of the nameless female walk away, knowing evidently she did not have any sense of direction. She just kept on walking, her steps more like furious stomps and her anger obvious in the manner in which she flipped back her hair more than thrice in a few strides.

He spotted her fingers curl around the dagger he gifted her as a sign of his vow—clearly indicating he'd show—and felt a flicker of regret building up in his chest. It was one of his favourites, after all. It sharpened the fastest, sliced the deepest, and when thrown, travelled the quickest.

But he admitted that thinking about the dagger would not aid ease the irritation building in his chest, shoving down the flames of his regret.

It was her words; her _persistence_. As much as it was admiring, it was also revolting. It seemed they'd always return to the same discussion: her freedom. And his response would always be the same: his Creed came first.

Altair shook his head, and picked up his usual pace when within the crowd. He watched the woman's back. She was still fuming. He wondered when she'd stop with her determination to stay alive, and the lengths it would take to break down her spirit.

Yes, he was cruel and murderous. He'd always been such, was such, and will forever be as such. But was that an issue to be proud of, as she'd hoped him to be?

No.

It was a matter that concerned what was right and wrong, what was considered best or not, and the sacrifices one should make for a better outcome; a brighter future. If only she knew she'd actually be dying with an almighty honour. So many others before her had.

And yet... she craved for life, craved its essence, and Altair surprisingly found himself not arguing with the idea, because it was understandable. He did not know what she went through, didn't truly care. Perhaps he'd be doing her a favour when he put an end to her miserable life.

All thoughts aside, he did not take pride with his kills, he took pride in his skills. His strength. And with that, he would protect his brethren with whom he had been raised, trained, and bled with. Brothers in all means except blood; they had gone through both bad and good sword to sword, and Altair would never jeopardize their lives. He, silently and from afar, cared for them, but he did not share the identical feelings with the female. She was simply a pawn in this game.

He released a bitter chuckle. Yes, he was cruel. But it was necessary, for one should not error due to the interference of emotional sensations. Emotions corrupted the man, polluted his mind, and caused him to doubt his own instincts. It was a weakness; an abomination, and Altair would never permit it to rule his life and, thus, lead him astray from the correct path.

Even when he pierced his blade through the female's guts, he'll be ever emotionless. Cold and calculated. Her innocent—yes, he admitted she was one—blood would taint his hands, as did the others before her, and he'd deal with it in the same manner he'd dealt with the previous assassinations—he'd simply be strong, calm, and ignore it.

But now, as Altair stared at her, watching her back go further and further away, he knew, deep in his guts, that it would not be the same as his previous kills. And he knew exactly why.

She was fighting for it. Not simply giving way but voicing her thoughts no matter how low they were. And the fact that he even cared to acknowledge it_ really_ irked him. Hence he did the best thing he knew how and wisely chose to ignore it.

Conquering the space between them with his long strides, he reached the female's side in no time.

"You stated you had it under control, it seems to me that is last thing you have at the moment." Altair spoke next to her, pointing out how she was drawing eyes to her more than trying to fit in the crowd, and shattering their disguises.

At his voice, she started, releasing a soft gasp. Then, wearily, she tossed him a glance before fixing her eyes on the road. "Blame only yourself," she muttered, crossing her arms against her chest.

He slightly shook his head. He needed her to get to the matter at hand and concentrate on their mission, but with her current attitude, they'd fail before their mission even properly started.

"Focus, female. Your incapability at keeping your feelings in check are luring more attention than necessary."

He witnessed her jaw twitch as she grit her teeth together. "I have a blade in my hand," she nearly hissed out. Altair arched a dark brow up.

"Are you threatening me?" He questioned.

"I don't know, are you that easily threatened?" She sneered.

"It is my duty to keep my senses high and in alert," he said instead.

She fell into a deep silence, her brows slightly furrowing as if in thinking. Then, ever so softly, she murmured, "Do you have a lot of duties to fulfil?"

He strode forth, calmly eyeing the street. "If you are indirectly questioning if what I do is a burden, then no. It comes casually to me as, " he paused in his speech, eyeing her sideways, "Making up nonsense poems comes to you."

This time, she paused, her lips parting in surprise. She eyed the ground, hands clenching into tight fists. _Not again_, Altair nearly groaned in weariness. Why was she so easily offended by the plain truth in opinions or even reality?

"Threaten me, fine," she whispered, but it came out almost broken. "Rob me of my freedom, _fine_. But to have the audacity to insult the one thing I adore doing?" Twirling half-around, she ground him with her intense glare. "That is not okay. Just who do you think you are, man?" She gritted out, her voice low so as to avoid commotion.

Altair inhaled deeply in attempts to patiently hear her without drawing out his blade.

She didn't pay any heed but continued. "You don't know anything about who I really am, but you judge so openly. Do you think yourself above me? Do you think you are oh-so-great that it gives you the right to threaten, steal from, and insult me? Does that make you feel good, hm? Keep in mind that I'm aiding you, and I'm done tolerating your negative comments."

"You are right, I do not know you well enough to judge. Forgive me." Altair sincerely offered in his tranquil tone. "But with all the questions you have thrown at me, you commit the same error. Assumptions from you I will not tolerate. I said your poems are nonsense because that is simply how I saw it, and shared my opinion with you."

"Well," she raised her chin up. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

Never had a female provoked him to talk as much as he did now. Not just a woman, but anyone. She appeared to be the sole person who seemed to misunderstand his motives and words the most, as though she expected everything negative from him, and he felt ridiculously inclined to right her thoughts of him. He didn't even know why he even bothered.

Let her think what she wanted. The mission held more value than her assumptions.

He curtly nodded. "Fair enough." With that, he continued walking. After a few strides, he heard the female's choppy breathing next to him.

"Can you walk a little slower? It's getting hard for me to keep up with your long strides," she offered.

This was his calm stride, he wasn't sure he'd be patient enough to walk slower than this. "Get used to it," he said in a straight forward manner.

"Seriously?" she nearly exclaimed.

"Yes." He said no more, wondering if she'll misinterpret that as well. The female fell silent, her pace increasing and decreasing beside him. Okay, alright. He was walking a _bit_ fast. So what? He didn't desire to squander another second. Altair suddenly heard her shriek out a, "Ow!", and kept on walking, concluding she'd pick up pace.

After a few long strides, Altair realized his error, and ceased to a halt. He shifted slightly, turning sideways to face his back. Faces of the pedestrians bypassed him, their bodies brushing against his as they tried to move past his frozen state.

He didn't hear any uneven breathing, not even low muttered complaints from the female, and that caused him to fully turn his body and run his hawk eyes around the area. He snapped his gaze to the left, right, and even the roof's, calculating everything in the process. It was fruitless; she was nowhere in sight.

That woman, he growled in distaste. With his sharp senses still in alert, he suddenly caught the whimpers of a female, and his ears twitched. Then, in the crowd, when the civilians walked by each other, in the small clearing, he spotted his target. He exhaled.

Making his way to her sitting figure, he came to a stop in front of her. Then, crouching low and resting his weight on his toes, he stared at her. "What is it now?"

She faced the ground, her hands clutching her foot that was covered by the layers of her dress. He frowned, all his earlier negativity absent.

"Female," he prompted.

She swallowed. "I... stepped on a sharp edge. My foot is bleeding."

He pursed his lips. "Reveal it to me."

Finally she chose to raise her head and look at him. "What are you going to do?" she asked in fright.

He furrowed a brow. Why the sudden fear? "Pour salt on it, what else?" he dryly retorted.

"What?" she croaked, her face leaching out of colour. "Why? I mean, it's n-not like so... No, no. Get away from me, I'll do it myself."

The fact that she believed his sarcastic retort sparked amusement in him. Despite their earlier dispute, he felt his lips twitch.

"Let me," he rested his hand on her hands, and gently pried them apart from her marred foot. She blinked at him, her eyes concentrating on his hooded face, searching him for... something. He slightly fidgeted under her gaze, and spotted her release her grip on her foot.

"Al...right," she swallowed. "I can do this. Surely it will not burn me to my very soul and make me scream like a maniac."

"No," Altair bowed his head down, eyeing her injury, "It will feel worse."

"No..." He saw her lower lip slightly wobble. "Oh, God."

So naïve. He lifted the edges of her dress up to her ankle, and gently brought her foot a little higher for inspection. "I should name you Shoeless," he muttered low.

"Why?" she suddenly asked. Altair didn't realize he voiced it out loud, and cursed under his breath.

"Because you seem to be barefoot whenever we meet," he coolly provided, his mind briefly flashing back to the memory of her sitting next to him on the shaded bench, her features relaxed and happy, and her feet, obviously, bare. And in the rain just yesterday night.

He heard her lightly snort. Paying her no heed, he eyed the injury below her foot, right under her toes, and noticed the skin part almost too widely. Blood flowed out, trickling down to her soles.

"What in God's name did you step on?" He clenched his jaw, knowing she'll stall their mission.

"I don't know. It was, uh, sharp and pointy, but don't worry," she rushed out. "I... will keep up. No biggie."

"Mhm," he lowly issued, suddenly tearing the side of her dress.

She sharply gasped. "What are you doing?!"

"You don't expect to walk with a bleeding foot, do you?" He eyed the soft material, then rolled one end three times so as to make it thicker. He placed that edge against the injury, and heard Shoeless hiss. "Careful, careful, careful," she chanted under her breath. Then, "I thought you had to pour salt," she muttered tightly, questioning him with her hard stare.

"No, I just found your reaction intriguing that I didn't see the need to stop," Altair admitted sheepishly, and heard her growl. "Unless you really want to—"

"N-No!" she literally roared in his face. Then, "No," she said more calmly. "No salt. We good."

He shrugged, securely wrapping the cloth around her foot. She slightly fidgeted. "I don't know why, but that feels really good," she said, watching him work. "It's like the wound closed."

"It... did," Altair stated the obvious.

"No, I mean yeah, but I meant like it healed. Okay ignore me."

Flexing his fingers, he tied the end into a knot at her ankle, sealing the injury from further abuse. Then his eyes unexpectedly landed on her smooth white ankle, and he found himself compelled by its delicate bone structure. He would never voice it aloud, but he possessed a silent weakness for a woman's ankle—and hers did not disappoint.

Abruptly realizing his train of thoughts, Altair instantly snapped his gaze away. With his head bowed down, he rose.

"Try to stand," he coldly provided. By the tone of his voice, the female knew there was no room to ask for his aid.

"Sure, sure," she grumbled before carefully beginning to rise. He eyed her efforts in ever patience, and began to grit his teeth at her slow pace. A part of him even thought she was doing it on purpose. She stuck her marred foot out, attempted to rise, tried to grab the side of his attire for balance, and knowing she erred, instantly retreated her fingers, thus falling back on the ground.

He finally decided to help her. Briefly shaking his head, Altair grabbed her forearm and jerked her up. He spotted her wince but that was it, no complaints or snaps. He released his hold on her.

Altair watched as she slightly hopped on one foot, trying really hard not to tumble down. Then, giving up her restraint, she grabbed his forearm, at last finding herself an anchor.

"Why didn't you ask for shoes since you seem to lack them?" he questioned.

She gave him a look. "Well, can you blame me? The last time I asked you for anything, I earned a death sentence."

He returned her look with a long and heavy silence before turning on his heels. "Then perhaps it is a good thing you are barefoot," he muttered under his breath. She hopped up to his side.

"Thanks," he heard her own muttered retort.

Altair brought her closer to his form, and tilted his chin up at a bench to their right. "Await for me there, because unlike your hesitation, I shall do what is best for the mission."

He lead her to the bench, and helped her sit by gently guiding her down by the waist.

"Thank you," she let out in a breathy murmur. Once she was seated, he straightened, tossing a look back to find any stores for the item he was searching for. Once he did, he turned to go.

"Wait, where are you going?" she hastily called out behind him.

He didn't bother turning around as he let out a, "To get you shoes."

She suddenly fell silent behind him. Not paying her much heed, he strolled to the shop where an old man sat on a stool, leather in his hands as he sewed.

"Greetings, my friend." Altair entered his shop. The old man tilted his head up at the young man who strolled inside, leaving an air of authority in his wake.

"Selam..." the shopper replied, the saliva in his mouth drying out. He blinked at the heavily armed man standing at his doorway. "I... don't have much of money, my son," he croaked out in Arabic.

Altair was eyeing the shoes when the old man uttered those words. He tilted his head to the side, staring at the man behind the shadows of his hood. "I have not come to rob you, my friend," he replied evenly in Arabic. "Show me which ones are for females."

At his request, the old man didn't even bother to shield his relief. "Oh, yes, yes. Of course. Come here."

He brought him to the other side of the room, where all sorts of shoes resided.

"What kind are you looking for?" the shopper asked.

"I... have not selected shoes for a female in my entire life, hence... I do not know. But her foot is marred, that means something comfortable."

"Ah, an injured female," the old man tsked knowingly. "For such occasions, you shan't purchase enclosed shoes by all means. They'll tighten around her feet and further deepen the abuse."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Simple leather sandals would do. Here they are," he pointed at them, "suit yourself."

He didn't offer the man a response as he brought one leather sandal up for inspection. He didn't realize females could have such large feet. Putting it down, he brought up another brown leather sandals. This one was smaller and... just about right. Since he knew the size of her feet when he doctored her injury, he noted that this would suffice.

"I'll take this one."

"Then it is yours."

"How much?"

"That would be, eh, two dinars."

Altair paid him his due, got the other pair of the sandal, and strode out from the quiet shop to the noisy streets of Damascus.

He made his way to the bench, and was about to tilt his head up to eye her figure but instead stilled dead in his steps. The expectation of catching a female in a red dress withered away when an empty bench greeted his eyes.

_Empty_. He walked over to it, his steps determined and promising. She was not there.

He swiftly turned around in place and did a 360 degrees check. Civilians bypassed him, merchants shouted the worth of their goods, and murmurs and constant chatter greeted him. The sun shone bright and clear, but her face was not in the crowd.

Where had she gone?

Had she escaped?

At that thought, his muscles instantly stiffened. Could she have...? He couldn't discern why she wouldn't; he promised her death. But she had promised him her cooperation, and Altair was not a man to suffer naivety easily but a part of him rebelled at the thought of her deceiving him.

But let's say she did and chose to flee, he knew she couldn't be that far off. That woman could barely stand. At that thought, Altair gradually lowered his gaze to the ground, and his sharp eyes discerned small dots of scarlet moulding with the rugged sandy ground, almost playing hide-and-seek with the dirt.

Putting one step after the other, he followed the trail of blood. The evidence appeared quite... random. Despite him having a strong stomach, the said organ released a quiver.

First, by the extent of the crimson droplets following one after the other, it seemed she was in a hurry. After a few steps, Altair's brows deeply furrowed. There, right next to two droplets of blood the ground possessed a mark. The rugged sand was drawn back, almost as though someone had been... dragged. Something dark befell Altair's features, and his golden eyes sharpened with the sudden gleam of demise.

The female had been kidnapped, and in the crowd. That said something about the men/man he was going to kill. They were skilled at avoiding a scene if they kidnapped their target in broad daylight. Good; he'd always favoured challenges.

Now, his every step bled with fury, and his stride promised only war.

He conquered more steps with his swift pace and, as though affected by storm brewing within him, his Eagle Vision instantly activated. Human's who had faded into the background now emerged from it with a bright blue light illuminating off their person, indicating that they were innocent—and good.

His eyes spotted a few red auras, but he soon concluded them to be the guards. Crusaders, to be exact. His mission was not them, and they better thank their God for that. He instead followed the trail of blood the female left unfolding, and with each step he took, the higher his fury blazed, and the higher it blazed, the swifter his pace became. Soon Altair found himself running.

The blood kept on coming and coming until, finally, a red aura greeted his Eagle Vision. A man held a red-dressed woman by the waist, and Altair spotted a knife pressed to her side in warning. The two figures turned to an alleyway, and he, using the wooden planks connected to the buildings, sprinted up to the roofs. He ran across the uneven surfaces, leaping up and down as if the Devil himself was chasing him.

The muscles of his legs bolted and flexed as he run and jumped, the heat of them all the more feeding the one sprouting in his chest. And as he chased the red aura, one thought kept on crossing his mind over and over again:

How _dare_ they.

Altair moved in such an unstoppable pace that if he were to run into a wall, he'd surely break right through it, but when he neared the roof's edge, he commanded his legs to come to a sudden stop—and they did.

Dust slightly rose in the air as he skidded to a stop at the edge of the building, right above the empty alleyway. He crouched low as he eyed the red figure leading the familiar figure of the female to the centre.

"I-I don't know what y-you want from me," he heard her panicked voice, and shockingly exhaled in peculiar relief. "But even I know I don't have what y-you seek."

"Shut your trap!" her captor roared, tossing her already limping form to the ground. When she roughly fell to the rocky surface, she released a cry. "My foot," she wailed, desperately clutching her injured foot.

The man only laughed at her state, and then whistled low. "Is that so, little rich whore? I can see by the material of your dress that you are from the elite."

At his words, she paled. The man chuckled darkly, slowly circling around her. "Ah, fear. Such an ugly expression on a pretty face like yours. Just looking at your attire, I can see you have struggled to survive. My life spent as a thug, I know an idiot when I see one. Trust me, you won't last long in the streets. Such a frail little thing you are, already you are beaten down." He tsked. "By the look on your face and at the poor state of your dress, I think you to be a runaway. Are you lost, love? Maybe I should bring you back to your superiors."

"N-No!" she shouted in panic. "No, I-I just—"

"We have a lot of runaways here, and to our luck, they always tend to be from rich households. I have connections around this blessed city, my homeland, so it will be easy for me find your guardians. They surely must be looking for you, don't you think?"

"Wait, wait, please just w—"

"Here, we treat our elders with outmost respect. You worrying them does not sit well with me."

Her frantic gaze scanned the area as if to escape, then, fixing her eyes back at the man, she suddenly glared at him. "So treating women with such behaviour is acceptable then?"

"All I'm going to do is take you back to where you belong. A man's got a family to feed."

"I wonder how your meal would taste when you realize you have ruined a woman's life just for the sake of gold. I think it'd taste like regret and self-hate but mostly full of shit, yeah?"

The man suddenly burst out laughing. "You have got a fine mouth. I like it."

"I will take that as an insult."

More throaty laughter. Then, he suddenly stopped, even his constant circling, as he ground her with his dark gaze. Altair had to act, but there was more to it than this. He'd withhold his blade for a moment.

"Brothers," the man suddenly whistled low. "Come on out."

At his order, men began to emerge out of the shadows, from out the windows, and inside the buildings. There were six men in total. Now his instincts got their satisfaction.

And now was the time to act.

"Meet pretty face," their leader said. "I have a feeling we will earn quite a few pounds for her."

They encircled her, all amusement and chuckles. He heard her snort, saying, "And you're calling me a whore?"

All amusement suddenly died out, only dead silence greeted them all.

"I think we should teach her a few manners before we sell her," one man darkly uttered, roaming his eyes up and down her body in an unkindly manner.

"I think we should," their leader gradually nodded his head in agreement. "Cease her."

Two men grabbed her by the forearms, earning a struggle from the female. "No, wait! Stop! Let me go, don't touch me! Stop!"

He palmed a dagger, and readied his legs for a leap down the high roof.

"Altair!" she shrieked out for help when one of the man grabbed her hair, roughly jerking her head back as the other one attempted to lift up her dress. "Altair! Altair, please!"

Their leader almost spat in fury. "Who in God's name is Al—"

But he couldn't finish his sentence.

The silhouette of an eagle suddenly flew above their small heads, and the leader's eyes snapped up to meet deadly golden eyes shadowed behind an arched silvery hood. His eyes widened in alarm and his lips parted to say something—but nothing emerged.

Curling his legs below him, his knees almost touching his waist and his upper body leaning forward, Altair brought his right arm up, covering the lower side of his face, and tightened his clasp on the blade in his hand.

In just a heartbeat, the man who was standing proud and tall, was falling to the very dirt of the ground. Air whooshed out of his lungs as Altair's body slammed against his, the blade in his hand ready to slit his throat in half.

He shocked Altair by redirecting his hand away, the blade aiming his shoulder, and attempted to reverse the fall but Altair swiftly snaked his arm around the back of his head, causing his body to sideways flip to the enemy's back. Planting his feet on ground, Altair roughly shoved the man down by the head, smacking his skull against the rock hard ground.

He groaned out in pain as blood leisurely formed a pool around his head—but he still chose to stand. To keep him down, Altair put him out with a kick to the nose, breaking cartilage. This time he stayed down.

Tossing the sandals in his hand to the ground, he gradually turned around to face the other red auras.

They had watched him put out their leader in just a few heartbeats, and took a second to register what had happened.

Then, when the shock waned away, their eyes flamed with pure anger.

"You!" one of them roared out in fury, stomping closer to him. "You will pay for this!"

"Only with your lives." Altair raised the blade in his hand, twirled it in his hand for inspection, and then abruptly tossed it through the air. It whizzed past bodies and aimed the centre of the chest of the man who had spoken. He galloped in some air, faltered briefly on his legs, and then eyed Altair with blood gurgling out of his mouth.

He lifted a shaky finger towards him and, with every ounce of energy left in his body, commanded, "A-Attack." With that he fell face-forward to the ground with a loud thud. The men holding the female suddenly shoved her away, one even roared out in anguish.

The remaining four men began to encircle him, one grinning for bloodshed, the other two rubbing their fists together, and the last curling his hands into a tight fist while he fed Altair his death stare. "The man you killed was my brother," he growled low.

"Do not fret; you shall meet him soon." Altair coolly responded, his body still but his eyes following every one of their movements.

The one circling around him chuckled. "I doubt that." With that, he flung himself at Altair, all fists raised and ready. He appeared the youngest out of them all, hence the stupidest. Altair easily dodged his fists by ducking low, and when his body toppled forward, he slammed his knee straight into his stomach.

He heaved, a loud grunt escaping his lips. Altair planted his iron-knuckles straight in his jaw, and watched as several of his teeth flew out. He howled loud and fell to his knees. To end his torment, Altair turned on his heels and slammed the back of his foot against his temple. With that it was lights out for him.

He shrugged his shoulders back, as if shoving off some of the heavy weight of the world, and craned his neck around in a_ come at me_ manner.

"You son of a—" an angry voice boomed behind him, and he turned around to witness one of the man swiftly run up the wall and jump straight at him, a strong fist raised high in the air. When his balled hand neared Altair, he grabbed his wrist and jerked him forward, casually tossing him to the ground behind him.

The momentum caused him to roll across the ground and nail another man down. With their bodies entangled together, they both tried to jump up and, tripping over each others feet, went back down. Pathetic.

"You are mine!" the man with the death stare grit out. He didn't give Altair the chance to reply—not that he was going to—and run at him. Unlike the others, he didn't rush in with a fist ready to fly but instead duck, wrapped his arms around Altair's middle, and shoved him hard against the wall.

Breath escaped his lungs as Altair felt his skull slam against the hardness of the walls. He grit his teeth to regain back his senses.

"You will pay!" the furious man roared, and threw a punch to his lower left rib, then his right, and was about to aim his stomach when Altair banged his forehead hard against his. Tremors rocked his skull but that didn't stop him from kicking the man away.

The force of it caused him to skid back and fall on his knees. He grabbed his bruising head and eyed Altair. With needed force, he rose to his feet. The other two cornered him at the sides, and all heaved out in breathlessness.

With one exhalation, all three abruptly jumped at Altair. He threw a punch at one, kicked the other, and duck low yet again to knock the third off his feet. When he jumped up again, someone grabbed him from behind, enabling the movement of his arms. The one he punched rushed straight at him, a knife in his hand. Using his current situation as an advantage, Altair, with a push against the ground, raised his legs up and kicked the upcoming man in the chest. He flew back. Still not lowering his legs, he instead swung them down, his knees missing the ground. The force of his body leaning forward caused the man in the back to fly to the front, and he landed on the ground with a loud thud.

Altair put him out with an iron-punch to the nose, causing blood to flow out due to the shattering of a bone. His friend didn't squander another moment as he yet again rushed up to Altair. He, too, run towards his enemy, but instead of knocking him dead out, he swiftly planted one foot on his thigh, jumped up, and locked the man's head between the deathly grip of his thighs. Swinging down, he flipped his enemy over in the air and to his back. His silvery robes wildly fluttered.

The enemy attempted to rise back up but Altair, bringing his knee down, slammed it down on his throat, breaking the trachea. After a few struggles for breath, his eyes drifted shut.

"You will pay for their deaths!" the last remaining red aura ground out. Altair slowly turned on heels, facing the man who stood a few metres away.

"It is time you joined your brother." With that, he whipped out a blade, giving it a brief dance between his fingers.

"We shall see, coward," he spat out, bringing out his own blade. "When I'm done with you, I'll penetrate that little whore over there in such a way, there will be no chance for a babe."

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but Altair ignored it. With a roar, the man sped towards him as Altair to him. When they were only a few feet away, Altair, with super speed, abruptly leapt high above ground, extended his arm, and formed a swift twirl mid-air, causing the blade in his hand to slice open the man's throat.

Eyes widened when Altair's body shoved him straight to the ground. He landed atop him, and rose to his knees to only find the widened eyes had frozen in their terrified state. Bringing his hand up, he brushed his fingers over his eyes, gently shutting the lids. Altair sighed.

The sudden scream of the female caused him to instantly snap his head up, and what greeted him provoked the darkness within to blaze.

"Move and she shall die," the leader of the thugs grit out, blood coating half of his face. The female swallowed, the action making the knife pressed at her throat to slightly graze the skin.

Altair rose to his feet, his hand tightening around the dagger.

"I will take her with me, and you will stay. Understood, _Al-ta-ir_?" He chuckled hoarsely, and flicked his tongue out to trace the female's ear.

"Ew..." she squirmed, trying to wiggle free. "Let me go, you bastard."

"I shall do with you as I please, _whore._" He tightened his hold on her. "Now, I shall move and you stay put, you hear? Or I will slit her throat." Step by step, he walked back, the female struggling to keep up, and tauntingly slid the edge of the knife across her tender throat.

Her lids drifted shut as her lower lip wobbled. Then, surprising both Altair and the enemy, she grit out a loud, "No." Before the enemy could comprehend her motives, she jammed her elbow into his side, causing him to falter and grunt.

That's all Altair needed.

In a heartbeat, the blade in his hand vanished and appeared before the man's chest, tearing through his flesh.

The female hopped away from his crumbling figure in fright. With his eyes enlarged and teary, the man fell to his death.

"Oh, God." She covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, G-God."

Then, glancing around at Altair, she sighed out in relief and hurried her way towards him. Before he could stop her hobbling figure from approaching him, she flung herself to him, her arms wrapping around his neck. He took a few steps back due to the force of her embrace.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh, God, I-I didn't know what to do; I thought you would leave me. I was just sitting when t-that man approached me, said he needed help, I-I believed him and stood, only to feel the point of a knife pressing to my side. He said he would k-kill me if I p-protested. O-Oh m-my..."

"Shhh," Altair suddenly silenced her, awkwardly patting her on the back. He never consoled anyone, did not even accept consolation from anybody; not even after Al Mualim took him in and raised him. The son of Umar Ibn La-Ahad was not a fragile man.

"Are y-you mad at me?" she wailed out to his chest.

He frowned. "No, I'm not. Come on, we must leave." Grabbing her by the shoulders, he gently pulled her away from his form. Her arms had clung to him like an unbreakable chain, provoking him to briefly grit his teeth together. "Female."

She released a muffled sigh, stepping (hopping) away from him. "Thank you. Again." She softly patted his chest, but did not face him.

Altair eyed her for a few heartbeats, then slightly shook his head, releasing a sigh. "You should not gift your trust just to anybody. Be cautious the next time I leave you."

She formed a short nod. "Alright. First I thought you weren't coming, so I panicked. Then I saw your shadow perched high on the roof, and relaxed. I think you heard my sassy retorts, yes?"

His lips slightly twitched. "I did."

"It was a distraction, by the way. So you could, I don't know, beat the hell out of them while I preoccupied them with my blunt words."

"It worked." He took her by the forearm and gently turned her around, deciding to present her the sandals. His Eagle Vision deactivated, and the colours of the world exploded with brightness that nearly hurt his eyes.

Then a sudden realization struck him—hard. Altair almost tripped over his own feet. Although he did not mean to, he jerked at her arm, causing her to almost fall on her behind. Only his clasp on her arm prevented that fall.

"Hey!" she shouted, facing him with wide, pain-filled eyes. "Why did you do that?"

Altair's lips parted and he stared at her for a whole minute, not finding the right words and clearly looking like a fool.

_No... It cannot be._ There must be a mistake. He awakened his Eagle Vision and watched as the world once again dissolved in contrast to the auras of the humans.

He blinked, not believing his eyes. Altair turned her to the right, ignoring the way she frowned, and then to the left. Right. Left. He deactivated his Vision. Blinked at her dumbfounded. Awakened his Vision yet again to only stare at her dumbfounded.

What was the meaning of this?

"What?" she questioned, sporting a very genuine confused expression.

His brows furrowed, and he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. Innocents carried the blue aura, indicating they were pure in soul. Enemies sported the red aura, showcasing the evil within. But this female...

This female sported no colour. No aura. She was plain in her human image. No light pulsed from her person, not even yellow or green or anything.

She was the same before and after the activation of his Eagle Vision.

How?

Why?

Why hadn't he noticed it before? He was so determined to end their lives that he failed to register such a vital point. When the red aura turned her towards the alleyway, when the leader took her hostage, she never bore any light.

This sixth sense of his never failed him before, was not failing him now, hence why _this_? What did this mean? Was she not an innocent? An enemy? If neither, then _what_ was she?

"This is impossible," he whispered.

"O-kay... Why are you gawking at me like my nose suddenly appeared on my forehead?"

He stared at her for a moment, then, tearing his eyes away and rubbing the place between his eyes, he shook his head. "It is nothing. I... thought..." he sighed. "It is nothing. Forgive me for my bluntness."

She stared at him, then slowly nodded. "If you say so, Mr. Awkward."

He'd deal with this matter later. First, he had to get to the mission at hand. "Come," he said, and guided to where he placed the sandals. One of the bodies of the man lay close to the shoes and he, ever so bluntly, lightly kicked him over to his stomach.

"You don't have to beat him; poor guy is already in Hell." She muttered. "By the way, that move you did by locking his head between your thighs was majestic. Can you teach me?"

"Sit." He said instead, and guided her down so she could sit on the man's back. After what they'd done to her—what they almost did to her—this is the least they could do.

She shrugged, patting the man's head. "Why thank you." Apparently, she felt the same way.

Altair grabbed the shoes, knelt down on one knee, and took hold of her injured foot. Her eyes almost immediately found his shadowed face.

"W-What are you—"

"I purchased you shoes. Do not thank me."

"Thank you," she said anyways.

He glowered, then tossed the leather sandals on her lap. "Wear them yourself." With that, he rose to his feet.

She shook her head in bewilderment. "You deserve to be called Grumpy-bo-Humpty."

"Female," he warned.

"Alright, alright," she raised her palms up in innocence, "don't stab me." Grabbing the shoes, she slid them on and rose to shaky feet.

Altair brought her closer to his form and began striding. "Direct me to your residence."

She glanced up at him, stared for a few heartbeats, then began walking.

-x-

**AN:** _Well, farewell for now! :D_


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:** _Okay, fine. Guilty as charged. It was more than a month. But here I am, and even though next week will be super-duper busy due to studies, I will try to manage my time._

_Thank you_**:**

**xxz0eyxx, **_hah, well done!_

**Formerly Dragon**, _I tried to be more creative (cough cough) thanks, though!_

**Yami1414;** _you have good imagination, but sadly it means something else. Ill not reveal it yet, you have to wait for the Part II of this story :P_

**Chelsea-chee;**_as the Rafiq said (not), patience is a great virtue._

**lolthatsme101**; _thank you, Im really flattered. :)_

**AnimeGIRL2014, **_Yes, master_.

_And_ **others**,

_FOR YOUR AWESOME REVIEWS! YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME AND I SHOULD PROBABLY STOP USING CAPS LOCK. OKAY._

_ENOY!_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Eight

Farah was surprised when she lead the assassin straight to her residence. She didn't attempt to lead him astray or maybe even fool him, no. She instead sweetly presented her home to a murderer—might have as well said _please kill them all_ for all he cared—and did not once stop to think about the welfare of her mother or Sarah.

Fool. She was the epitome of an idiot.

But even then, looking down at her house from the hillside, Farah felt a little scared and nervous. The moment had come, and she didn't know how to feel about it.

Watching the silent building, she swallowed in sadness. Her lips curved downwards as she felt her chin tremble. The building was structured like the letter C but backwards, and had a vast garden in the middle with a three levelled fountain. It was painted in pink and gold, gifting it a luxuries image.

Farah suddenly covered her mouth with her hand and turned away from the view below her. She hastily limped away from Altair's presence, and flattened her palm on the trunk of a tree to her left. She leaned against it for support, and felt hot tears burn her eyes.

The ache she felt spread from her chest to all the way up to her neck and jaw, proving breathing to be difficult. Her insides _scorched._

Her shoulders shook from her trembles as she attempted her hardest to remain calm. Her resolve was fading. "How could I?" Farah questioned herself, briefly shaking her head. "How could I lead you to my house, where the people I care about reside?"

Sweeping her hand through her hair and fisting a few locks, she murmured out, "Fool, fool, fool." Tightly shutting her eyes, Farah begged for forgiveness that would not come.

A warm and heavy hand suddenly came to rest on her shoulder, causing her lashes to part. She craned her neck sideways, and her wet lips parted as her eyebrows furrowed almost painfully.

The hooded face of the assassin saluted her, and Farah faintly noticed how he turned her body around to face his. She instead stared at him through unshed tears.

"I come not for your family; hence rest assured, female. My target is Edwardo."

For what seemed like forever she eyed him in silence, dragging her gaze from one side of his face to the other, as if searching for the ring of truth in his half-shaded features.

Then, at last, she nodded, and tore her eyes away from him. "Yes, of course. You have stated that far more than necessary; I do not even know why I was about to breakdown. Again." She released a shaky laugh.

Altair responded with a simple jerky nod before turning on his heels and walking to the edge of the cliff. He daringly leaned forward, surveyed her residence, the land below, and then her. She frowned.

"Stay here, I shall not be absent for long." With that, nearly shocking the soul out of her left boob (where her heart resided, mind you), Altair fearlessly jumped down from the cliff. Her jaw dropped all the way to the ground; her eyes nearly popping out of her head.

He did not just—

"What...the..." She gradually let out, walking over to the edge of the cliff and looking down. Jump across buildings, sure. Jump down from them, why not. Climb them, hey, brothers got to do what they have to do. But jump about thirty-five ft. down? Was he in his right mind? Who _does_ that?

Farah examined the long way down, and tried to focus on spotting his broken body splayed across the ground, but came up with nothing. The vastness of the green land spread below her eyes, causing her to sigh.

Another reason not to trigger any nerve in that assassin. _If only she listened to her own advices..._

Pursing her lips, she crouched down and sat at the edge, provoking her legs to dangle, and laid down flat on her back. She stared up at the cloudless blue sky, and deeply inhaled. Watching as the birds soared high in the atmosphere, Farah brought the blade Altair had given her closer to her chest. She examined the design on the hilt, and formed a tiny smile. _A piece of_ _his_ _trust, huh?_

Pressing it to her chest almost possessively, she once again fixated her gaze on the sky. She thought of everything and nothing, clearly lost in her own musings when she didn't even realize her own eyes closing.

After a few inhalations, Farah fell asleep.

Something dark was hovering over her. Even though her eyes saw only darkness, she still felt a presence blocking her view. Grumpily furrowing her brows, Farah shifted in her sleep. Then, her eyes abruptly snapped open on their own accord, her pupils shrinking in size. She breathed out.

Then her eyes finally decided to acknowledge the figure looming over her, and Farah could only react with passion. She screamed. Or tried to before a leather gloved hand pressed her lips shut, stifling her surprised yelps.

"Calm yourself, woman. It is only I."

She recognized that voice. Altair. Gradually she eased down, her hold on the blade loosening. He released her, but still hovered over her like some giant statue.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"You were to fall if I had not stopped you in time."

She arched a brow, then shrugged her shoulders, too lazy to care. Sighing, she rose to a sitting position, thrust her arms up, stretched, and yawned loudly. She nearly punched Altair in the face and earned a low grunt from him. Her lips twitched.

Easing down, she eyed her surroundings and almost immediately spotted her house. Farah stilled. "The mission. Right." She murmured sullenly, remembering.

The twittering of birds saluted her ears, and a cool breeze gently swept over her. Her brows furrowed when she noticed the golden sun was already setting over the horizon.

"Wait, how long was I out?" she asked the assassin, spotting him casually move to her side and lie down, resting his weight on one elbow. At her question, he let his gaze drift to her form.

"For four hours and twenty-two minutes," he coolly answered, his gaze returning to the setting sun.

Farah's eyes widened. "Seriously? And you let me snore away?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Do not misunderstand, I did attempt to wake you, but you lay like some dead deer, refusing to even budge. Though do not feel so confused, the perfect time for your required act is after the sun sets. And here," Altair said, reaching behind him. He got something out, his broad palm engulfing the object. "An apple."

Farah blinked, stared for a few heartbeats, then hesitantly took it from his hand. She stared at it for a long while.

"You have seen one, yes?" Altair's almost teasing tone rang out. Farah's lips curved into a smile as she rolled her eyes at his words.

"Yes, thank you for your deep concern," she replied sarcastically, placing her hand against her heart to mock the act of caring. He respectfully bowed his head down in a _you are welcome_ manner, and Farah knew he, too, was mocking the gesture. She released a soft laugh, briefly shaking her head, and vaguely noticed the previous negative feelings wane away.

She gave the red apple a wipe before bringing it up to her lips. Before she could bite it, Farah eyed Altair and asked, "Did you eat?"

He nodded.

"When?"

"A while back."

"So, you don't want the apple?"

"No."

"Good." She smiled before crunching down the apple, earning a brief snort from him.

"M_mmmmm_," she released with her mouth full, enjoying the juiciness of the fruit. She closed her eyes. "S_ooo_ good. Sure you don't want?"

"Yes."

"Lookie here, Mr. I'm Too Good For An Apple, it's is delicio_uu_s," she exaggerated the word, stealing more bites from the red apple.

"Just eat." He shook his hooded head.

"I am, can't you see?" Farah rolled her eyes. She turned in her seat to fully direct her attention to him, and crossed her legs.

Altair angled his head to the side. "You are blocking the sunset."

She shrugged in a carefree manner, saying, "Surely I'm more interesting to look at?"

Farah suddenly stilled at the bold words that escaped her lips, and heavily swallowed the chewed pieces of the apple. Her and her big mouth. She mentally face-palmed herself.

Altair lightly scoffed, glancing away. "Fortunately, you aren't. Perhaps a little delusional? Yes."

She laughed, surprising herself. "You just can't see properly through your hood, that is all."

The next moment, Altair's hand moved to his hood, and he casually pulled it down, provoking Farah's chewing to stop. Just stop. Her breath hitched. Unblinking, her eyes lingered on his—oh, dear God—handsome face for a moment, then another moment more—Good Lord, why not _forever_?

The setting sun's golden flames caressed his face, brightening his bronzed skin to another degree. But above all, it was his eyes that took the hit to the heart. The rays illuminated it with no limits. Now, it was not only golden but was gleaming and twinkling, as though hot and melting under the sun's warm caress. It seemed liquefied, and she was surprised it didn't just melt down his cheeks in golden streaks.

"No, it appears my opinion is the same." His indifferent voice snapped Farah out of her drooling musings.

"Aha," she answered in a half-minded daze, eyes still on his sunlit face. Her gaze dropped to his full lips and at the scar that cut through the thin stubble and flesh. She swallowed hard, her mouth watering, and it was not because of the _apple_.

Farah suddenly saw a gloved hand in front of her face, a finger chucking her under the chin.

"What?" she quickly said, eyes snapping up to meet Altair's slightly amused face. His... she swallowed, lips—yes, just lips—twitched.

"What are you doing?" he questioned.

"Oh, um, just staring. At you. Your eyes become odd when the sun illuminates them, as if they are, like, melting. And it's just, well, uh, weird seeing you without the hood on. I guess expected a more handsome face, but you dissapointed me. Yes, you did. Like big time." _What was wrong with her?!_

Altair gradually nodded, probably concluding she needed help. Farah had the strongest urge to jump off the cliff. "It seems we both dislike each other's appearances."

She nodded. "Yes. I mean, who would even have such a beauti— uh, plain face?"

Altair's lips twiched again. Dammit! Something was really wrong with her. Maybe it was the apple? Maybe he purposely made her eat it so she could blabber nonsense? She shoved the inane thought aside, knowing she had to get her act straight.

He was an assassin, she reminded herself.

Assassin.

Assass...

Ass..

As...

A...

All...

Allur...

Alluring...

_Ugh!_

Without another word, she began eating her apple. Unknowingly, her fingers began to gently comb her long strands. She enjoyed the meal as well as the caress. After a few strokes, every once in a while, she caught the assassin's eyes stray to the motion. This time her lips twitched.

After every stroke, she purposely caused her glossy strands to fall near his body, and played naïve while examining him from the corner of her eye. After a few brushes, his gloved hand finally reached out, causing her chest to tingle oddly. She allowed him to touch them, still playing oblivious.

He caught a few locks between his thumb and index finger, and gently run the pad of his thumb across the smooth surface of her hair. He turned and flicked it from side to side as he'd do with his blades, and lightly pinched it.

"Why long?" he suddenly asked, his voice low.

"Hmm?" she issued, staring down at him.

He brought the strands up a little higher so she could see, and briefly wiggled them.

She gazed at them, then looked back at him. She shrugged. "I don't know. It just kept on growing and I was too lazy to cut it."

Altair arched a brow. "Is that all?"

Apparently, it was not. She had grown and nurtured her hair because her grandmother had long hair. She'd passed away when Farah had turned twelve, thus leaving her alone with her abusive father. The only way she could still feel connected to her granny was through her long hair. It was inane and yet it brought her a calmness every time she brushed the claws of the combs through them.

"Yes," she answered instead, looking away.

Altair still kept his hard gaze locked on her, making her fidget uncomfortably. "Okay, fine. There is another reason," she admitted in a grumble. "But I'm not going to tell you."

"Fair enough." He nodded, releasing her strands and causing them to drop flat on the ground. Farah knew he wasn't upset with her lack of cooperation but was simply done holding them. It'd be awkward if he kept his clasp on them. Despite it all, she had to stop a pout from forming. Finishing her apple, she wiped her lips with the back of her wrist.

"Hey," she said, grabbing his attention. He looked at her, and she knew that was his 'What Do You Want?' stare.

"I got you something." She grinned.

He raised a slashing brow at her, not at all flattered.

"Here," she gave him the core of the eaten apple. "You want?"

He released out a sigh. "Ever so kind. No, I do not."

"Are you sure? Because I saw your eyes light up with hunger." Farah arched her own brow daringly. He rubbed the space between his eyes. "Then your eyes have clearly decieved you."

"Your face decieved you," she retorted. Turning a little, she raised her arm and, with full-force, threw the core across the land. It landed next to the tree. Which was only five metres away. "I'm so talented," she praised herself, placing a hand above her heart and softening her features. Beside her Altair snorted. She ignored his lack of praise and, turning back to him, sighed. "Now what?"

"Now we wait." He stared off to the distance. She nodded.

"Thanks, by the way." She offered, shoving her pride aside for one word. She rested her face on her palms and her elbows on her thighs. He looked at her.

"For what?"

"The apple, of course." She rolled her eyes. "It gave me energy." Didn't he see how _far_ she threw the core of the apple?

"Aah," he said knowingly, causing her to slightly frown. "That must be the reason why you are extra annoying."

"Uh, correction. Awesome is what you meant." She defended herself.

"No, just annoying," he plainly retorted.

"Ever so kind," she mimicked his words in a grumble.

Altair felt the corners of his lips lift up in a smile while she was staring at the ground, and immediately dropped it when her lashes fluttered up at him.

"I have a question," she suddenly asked.

"Do you not always?" He retorted monotonously.

She waved his words away. "What does your name mean?" Farah asked, commanding her voice to sound calm while on the inside she was actually nervous. She hoped she didn't inspire irritation in him.

With his gaze still concentrated on the sunset, Altair gradually run his tongue against his teeth. Yes, she'd ignited the flames of irritation.

"You do not see me asking for even your name, female. Why must you be so persistent?"

Farah slightly straightened, watching him. "Okay," she let out, putting her palms up. "I'm sorry for trying to sprout conversation, it seems that was very wrong of me."

Altair's golden eyes literally snapped at her, his long lashes fusing together. "I never said it was wrong."

Farah sighed. "Well, you made it seem like you did."

"What did I tell you about assuming things about me?"

"I did not assume!" she suddenly exclaimed. "I just simply asked what your— ugh, you know what? I'm sorry for even questioning your existence, I see now that I should've just kept my mouth shut."

"Female—"

"It's Farah!" she suddenly shouted out, accidently slipping out her name. She gasped in sheer horror, her fingers touching her plump lips. Oh, God... did she just...?

Altair stared at her with his lips parted, his unsaid words hitched in his throat. His dark brow twitched, and she found herself too shocked to speak.

Then, "You misheard it," she blabbered out. "It actually isn't my name. I was just jo—"

"It's Arabic," Altair bluntly cut her off, still staring at her. She sniffed, looking away and scratching her temple with her index finger. Great. Clap, clap. Way to go, Dovaros.

"I know," she muttered out, turning around and fully facing the sunset.

"But you do not—"

"Look like one? Believe me, I know." Farah interrupted. She heard the shuffling of clothes, then the heat of Altair's body as he seated himself next to her, his knees arched and his elbows resting atop them. She could feel him _just_ looking at her, provoking her to swallow hard. What was the big deal?

She watched as the orange flames of the sun leisurely began to seep away, away from their and the world's reach. Silence befell them, and a soft breeze brushed past their forms.

Farah inhaled, then slowly exhaled. "My mother," she uttered slowly, not knowing why she decided to share yet another private information with him. Eyes still locked on the waning sun, she spoke in a soft tone, "She's Bulgarian while my father Syrian. I'm of mixed blood, and actually know a little of Arabic. But, as a child, I grew up mostly in England, with my relatives, hence I had forgotten quite a lot of rules for the language. I still recall how to cuss, though." Farah laughed, briefly shaking her head, and then quieted down, something akin to depression weighing her down.

"We moved here six months ago to start a new life, you can say. But..." she gulped, fluttering her lashes to stop the burning in her eyes. "There was just one difference, though."

"And what may that be?" he asked in a low tone.

She couldn't believe she was sharing this with her captor, an assassin who would kill her afterwards. Her granny used to say strangers understood you more than your close ones, because they offered genuine answers without knowing your name. He was a lethal stranger, he knew her name and had concluded off her fate. And yet, she shrugged one shoulder. "There was nothing new about it. It was the same old suffocating life. I abondened my home in Bulgaria for Damascus, hoping from the bottom of my heart that we'd be influenced positively. But, no," she stared down at her lap. "It only brought more turmoil and calamity. In such a beautiful, colourful city was a household full of weeping women. It was worse.

"Bastard Edwardo decided he wanted me and my father didn't seem to care. I mean," she started, her voce rising as she looked at Altair. "What kind of father does that? The one who is supposed to protect his little girl from men such as Edwardo, was marrying off to one? No, no, that was too tame a word, pardon me. _Selling_ was what I meant." She released a bitter laugh, trying to cover up her suffocation from within. She had to stop before her words turned into hot tears of helplessness.

"He's selling me off. Oh, God," she muttered in disgust. "And by brutal force and abuse. Where is the justice in that?" Her voice broke, and uncalled tears began to blur her vision. "The one you look up to, admire and feel protected around, decides to sell you for money, how are you supposed to feel? I just— I mean— It's just that— I don't... know." Defeated, Farah glanced back at the sun that had already drowned below the bodies of land.

Darkness dawned. Her fate sealed.

"Do you wish for me to teach him a lesson?" Altair offered next to her. Farah instantly turned to him, her eyes boring into his. Then, her lips twitched, and she laughed. There was the answer to her granny's theory. Some answered with honesty, some comforted you, and other's mustered up the courage to go against your enemy—without even knowing their name._ So beautifully tragic..._

"Thanks, but it's quite alright." Sadly.

"As you wish," he slightly bowed his head down.

Silence followed after her unexpected outburst. "You know what's the worst part?" Farah found herself asking him, her voice dropping low and her shoulders sagging. Altair gazed at her. "I still love him. I still love my father. How more foolish can I get? How is that even fair? Where is the love_ I_ deserve? Am I unworthy?" She met the assassin's sharp gaze, her expression shockingly one of pleading. "Please answer me with honesty, assassin. Am I unworthy of... love?"

She didn't know why she was even venturing to this direction, didn't know why she allowed her desperate need of fatherly attention to emerge, and to a complete stranger? But Farah, deep inside, admitted that he would answer with honesty. From the moment she met him, she knew a man like him did not fear the consequnces of the truth and honesty. Nothing could rattle his insides or bring him down. He stood tall, not stooping low to the levels of the hypocrite. Just with his words, it presented how fearless and indestructibale he was, hence he would not squander his time lying when he could simply tell the truth.

He was reasonable, and Farah suddenly, deeply, cared for his opinion.

She watched him through ridiculous expectant eyes, and he seemed unbothered by her sudden yearn for honest answers. Another reason why a sample of respect grew in her chest for this killer.

He clasped one wrist and said, "It is not that you are unworthy, female. You seem to possess a... big heart, and some people—such as your father—seem to take great advantage of it."

She nodded, looking away. "In other words, I'm weak."

"No," Altair coolly provided. "You are honored. Lucky, even."

She frowned. "Why would you say that?"

He was silent for a few heartbeats, glancing at his hands, before he uttered, "Some people would sacrifice anything to have a sample of that tenderness before commiting the forbidden."

"I don't quite... understand."

"To feel even a bit of humanity in their cold hearts before blood spilled. What you possess is a gift. Your kind are generous. You forgive fast, show the most mercy, love more than you should, and feel appreciated by receiving so little in the end. I know if your father were to gift you a simple hug, you'd find it in yourself to forgive all that he has done." Something in her chest melted at the image of her father embracing her, and knew the assassin couldn't have said it any better. "People like you tend to make the world a better place. Feel blessed_, Farah_."

The way he said her name at the end, with his husky accented tone, caused her heart to literally skip a beat. Her stomach released a flutter, and she found herself forming a gentle smile. _Say it one more time_, she thought to herself.

"But I still have to die, don't I." She softly stated, once again looking away.

"I'm sorry," Altair sincerely offered. But that was not enough. Despite his beautiful words, she still had reason within her. She still was stubborn in her own way.

She hastily nodded, forming a smile. "Thank you. For your honesty, I mean. Not you killing me after the mission because that would be awkward."

He slightly inclined his head down. "You are most welcome."

A few minutes passed in silence.

"So..." She pursed her lips, trying to change the subject. "What does your name mean?" She expected him to ignore her, but he surprised her instead.

Rubbing his thumb around his wrist bone, Altair gazed forth at the lands below. "It translates to the flying eagle."

Her brows gently arched up at the suitable meaning. A flying eagle, a shadow in the skies, fast and strong and undeniably deadly. _Altair_.

"Why didn't I think of that before? It's so obvious." Farah smiled playfully, knowing it matched him perfectly. It seemed as though his existence surged the name forth.

"Do you know yours?" he questioned.

"Well, I know it's something close to the Ruler of the World or the Amazing Queen, but I'm open for other interpretations."

Altair barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "It translates to someone who is joyous. Cheerful. Someone like you."

Farah's lips slowly parted, and she, unblinking, stared at him. He thought her joyous? Despite her reasonable side telling her to shrug it off, her_ big heart_ accepted the compliment whith a whine of gladness.

Feeling warmrth in her chest and briefly shaking her head at their current situation, she turned around and stared up at the starless sky. They sat alone and in the comfortable but gripping silence, keeping to themselves but also realizing things would never be the same after this night.

They ventured to a dangerous territory, one they, the captor and the captive, should have stayed away from. It seemed like they violeted one of Life's main rules, and they would eventually pay the price. One disastorous way or another. They just did not know what it was yet.

-x-

**AN:** _Reviews are most welcome! :D_

_If you are confused about Farah's past, let me clarify: She's originally from Bulgaria, she was born there. After a few years, she moved to England, stayed there most of her life, then moved back to Bulgaria where her father suggested they move to Damascus. And so they did, it's been six months. So there is my nonsense babbling. :) _


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:** _Here I am yet again! This chapter is longer than the others, so youre welcome. Ive been gone for a long while, so theres your treat._

_Before I start, I always thank my reviewers but never the people who Follow, Favourite, and put me on their Author's list. You guys are all amazing and beautiful and adorable and so I thank you all! :D So thank you for all the reviews, favourites, and follows! I cant even believe I reached over 2000 views, this is crazy!_

_Oh, oh, and before your start reading, let me tell you how I really love this part in the story. It warms my heart. I hope you enjoy this scene as you did the others._

_Enjoy!_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Nine

Farah stared at the four faces of the people stationed before her, and did her best not to scream out loud.

Breathe. Just Breathe.

Her father slammed his fist against his open palm, the grin on his face indicating ugly things would soon take place. Beside him was her mother, who was crying her eyes out, and she noticed it was not because Farah had escaped but because she'd returned. It was one of sadness.

Her father slowly started to circle around her trembling figure in their outdoor garden.

"Oh, Farah," her mother sobbed, "Why did you come? Why sweet daughter? You had a chance, you had—!" before she could finish, her father punched her in the face, silencing her while at the same time earning a pained cry. She fell to the ground, clutching her face.

"Mama!" Farah exclaimed in horror, already rushing to her side. But before she could reach her, she was brutally grabbed at the forearm by her father, and tossed aside. She rolled across the ground and only halted when her spine hit the edge of the fountain.

"Enough, my love. _Please_," her mother blubbered out, "I beg of you. Don't hurt her. Hurt _m-m-me_."

Softly crying out, Farah gawked up at the approaching figure of her father. He signalled the two guards to take their leave, clearly indicating he got this. They hastily left their post, abandoning the females alone with the monster. Cowards. The only thing they could guard was their own asses.

Her father stomped up to her, and gripped her by the hair. She yelped at the pain. He dragged her up all way to her tip-toes, his black eyes glaring daggers at her.

"Why have you come, sweet daughter?" he spat. She closed her eyes, thinking about Altair's orders.

"I-I... couldn't survive the harshness of the street life," she croaked out, her limbs shaking.

"You, the one who survived my brutal beatings, couldn't stand against the street life?" He laughed out loud, the sound ugly and hoarse, and Farah gulped in dread at his question. "Don't lie to me," he suddenly growled out, the laughter gone. Before she could respond—or properly inhale—he swiftly turned her towards the fountain, widely palmed the back of her head, and mercilessly shoved her face inside the crystalline cold water of the fountain.

Farah sharply gasped in shock, and accidently choked on the water. It blocked her throat, abruptly earning fits of coughs. A very bad mistake. She tried really hard to stop the aching in her throat, barely keeping hold on what was left of the little air in her lungs. While her body tried to maintain its composure, Farah flailed uncontrollably on the outside, and tried her best to free herself from her father's scalp-digging grip.

Her palms slid down from the marble surface of the fountain and plopped into the water, slid yet again against the slippery edge, and aimlessly attempted to shove her father away.

Air... Need air...

Her chest burned.

He kept her underwater for a few more heartbeats, drowning her and feeling nothing about it. Farah still resisted, still fought her hardest, and still failed, still drowned. The air in her lungs blew out of her mouth, creating bubbles around her face, and she knew her time had run out.

More seconds—eternity, surely—passed, and Farah's fights slowly died away, her flailing arms dropping flat into the water. She could hear her heart thumping in her ears, could feel her lungs scorching for even a little fresh air, and felt as if her head was going to explode. She tried to fight it, battle the upcoming oblivion, but all she could muster was the gentle curve of her fingers. And even that stopped.

When blissful oblivion was at last embracing her, her cruel, heartless father swiftly dragged her head out of the water. Cool air attacked her wet face, causing her to reawaken. Farah's body didn't squander another moment as it backfired, throwing fits of deep coughs from within her stomach and all the way out of her throat. She inhaled as much air as she could.

Her father brought her face closer to his, their noses touching. "I will ask you one more time, wench. Why did you really come back?"

Farah tried her hardest to maintain her melting composure. "I... told... you. Thieves stole everything... hunger, thirst... I was scared and... wanted to come... home."

He scoffed. "To _this_? Why daughter, you are most welcome." Again, before she could understand what was happening, he shoved her back inside the cold water. And again she struggled, clawed and flailed, but just like before, she lost—Farah drowned.

Before her consciousness could slip away, her father ripped the feeling away from her and jerked her head out of the water. She continuously coughed and inhaled, feeling weariness creep its way up her limbs, spine, and neck. Her neck lolled to the side and she gradually closed her eyes, fought hard to reopen them, and stared at her father almost lifelessly.

"What happened to Jamil and the guards that were sent out to capture you?" he roughly questioned. She forced herself to shrug, acting uncaring. Her dress, hair, and appearance were the same as she'd left in the pouring rain. She even left her new sandals with Altair for the time being, giving her acting a backbone in appearance.

"I... didn't know... you sent guards... after me, so I don't... know."

He harshly grabbed her cheeks, keeping her head upright so she could meet his dark, unbending, and cruel eyes. "Don't. Lie."

"I'm... not," she weakly retorted. "I would have... been here a long time... ago if they were sent... after me. And... I would... not have been... able to take them just... by myself. I truly... don't know."

Her father stared at her for a long while and Farah, surprisingly, didn't waver under his hardening gaze. His weren't_ as_ compelling.

"Useless soldiers," he spat, more to himself than her.

Dynamic golden hawk eyes briefly flashed before her eyes, and she felt slight comfort ease away the burning in her chest.

Then, jerkily nodding, as if coming to a conclusion, her father forcefully dragged her by the forearm, causing Farah to slip, be dragged, and trip on the way.

"Join your whore of a mother, little wench." With that, he thrust Farah to the ground almost too powerfully. She literally flew, but before she could right herself or find her footing, her right ankle blocked her left one, and she was misdirected.

The momentum sent her weak body against one of the many columns supporting the building from below in the garden, and Farah couldn't stop herself when the stony angled edge of one column slammed straight into her hip, causing instant pain to erupt.

She screamed in agony, instantly grabbing her side. Thousands of tiny needles seemed to stab her organs from the inside, and drawing air was suddenly too hard and painful. She groaned, shutting her eyes tightly to ignore the shots of agony. Her side thumped as if it had a heart of its own. Despite the unbearable pain, she commanded herself to deeply inhale and exhale. Inhale, exhale. In. Out. Her side cried out, as did she, and her hip throbbed with pressure, surely indicating her there would be a bulging bruise.

She winced, trying really hard not to start crying. Farah gradually began to massage her side when she suddenly spotted her father staring down at her mother's lying form in the middle of the garden. With a powerful thrust, he kicked her in the stomach. Her mother's fragile figure jerked, and she whimpered, trying to stifle her cries.

She couldn't take this anymore. "Stop!" Farah screamed. "Don't touch her! No more, you monster!"

She rose to wobbling legs and limped to her mother's side. With a grunt, she crouched down and shielded her mother's slim body with her own. She glared up at her father. "You will not touch her, _understand?_" She didn't know where this sudden confidence surged from, only knew it was needed.

Her father stared at her in dead silence, his eyes like dark coals in the night. Then, earning a slight yelp from her, he started laughing. Hard. Grabbing his stomach, he leaned over, and laughed out more. She glared at him while still cradling her mother's body.

Then he suddenly stilled, his features deadpanning. "You're lucky I'm not aiming your pretty face right now."

She frowned.

A cruel, sadistic smirk spread across his face. "You have done me a grand favour by returning earlier than expected, sweet daughter. Me and your whore of a mother already arranged your engagement party, and it will take place precisely the night after tomorrow. Soon, you shall be sold and I shall be rich. Nobody knows you had escaped, hence you've favoured us, me, by coming back _home_. Perhaps I shall acknowledge you as such an obedient daughter, after all." Laughing again, he began to walk towards the residence.

"You will not have dinner, and I'll deal with your mother later. Enjoy your night, whores." With that, he disappeared indoors.

Her mother released a whimper beside her, drawing her attention.

"Shhh," she cooed, embracing her dearest mother's abused figure closer. "Don't be afraid, mama._ I_ will protect you."

At her words, her mother began to cry, causing Farah's chest to constrict. She hated when her mother wept; it broke her heart.

"Mama,_ molya_," she said in Bulgarian. _Mother, please_. "_Ne plachi. Molya, mama. Molya, ne plachi._"

_Don't cry. Please mother. Please, don't cry_.

Her mother cried harder. "I'm sorry, Farah Dovaros. I'm so sorry. I-I-I failed y-you. O-o-h, my t-treasure. _Forgive me_, p-please. _Prosti mi._"

She stared down at her mother, her lips parted and her eyes burning with unshed tears. "Don't say that. It's not your fault."

"It is," she hastily nodded, her cheek swollen and bruised. "I should have protected you, fought hard for you... but I'm weak. I could only love you, and pray you would live to see better days."

Farah gently smiled, a tear skidding down the length of her nose due to her looking down at her mother. She performed three fast nods. "I will. We both will. Together. Remember our dream about farms and cattle? We will have that; we will build it one day and live together in peace. Away from everyone. Away from _him_."

She tightly hugged her shaking mother's form and rested her cheek on her head. "Don't cry," she whispered into her ear as softly as she could. "Everything will be fine. All will be well. We will be happy again... you just wait and see."

Swallowing, Farah stared into the night, hot tears streaming down her pale cheeks. A sob tore from the depth of her chest. "All will be well, mama. We _will_ be saved," she murmured, "Just be patient."

She didn't know how long she sat outside, gently rocking back and forth as she comforted her weeping mother, all she knew and hoped at the moment was wishing the assassin did not witness all of this.

The sound of an eagle shrieking erupted through the night, and she closed her eyes.

By God, she prayed he didn't.

-x-

Altair Ibn La-Ahad gazed down at the two figures from above the roof. Earlier in the day, when he had left the female all by herself, he had studied her residence and memorized every corner and outlet. He probably knew her house better than she. Now, he resided above the roof, crouched and watching.

His ears twitched as he heard the mother weep and Farah speak in a language he had not yet learned. But by her origins and past, Altair concluded it to be Bulgarian.

Silence surrounded him, the breeze sweeping across the area once every three to five minutes. The half moon shone from behind dark clouds, illuminating the lands with silvery beauty.

_So this is what she had been fleeing from_, he thought, his hawk eyes silently boring into her tiny figure. After a long while, both women gradually rose and walked into the palace. His eyes trailed after the female's limping form until it disappeared inside the house alongside her mother. He lingered on the roof for a long while afterwards.

Once again staring up at the half moon, Altair slightly leaned back and thought. A cool breeze swept past him, fluttering his white robes but failing to soothe the rising heat within him.

His fingers itched to kill. To slaughter. And it was not Edwardo he yearned to strike, nor any of the Crusader guards, no. It was her father. The man that dared to strike women to present his power. Altair could put the humongous pride he had for his fists into utter shame and silence him in mere seconds if the words of the female still didn't echo in his mind, stopping him.

_I still love him_, she had said. _I still love my father_.

How very naïve of her. The woman had to get it past her brain that anyone could be a father but only a selected few could give the warmth of the term dad. Albeit the atmosphere was dropping, his insides were beginning to boil for all reasons unknown. All reasons he refused to dwell on.

He suddenly whipped out his Hidden Blade, imagining the female's father's neck to be at its tip, and angled it sideways, catching the sight of it glimmer under the moonlight. He sheathed it back inside, lowering his hand. Despite his wishes, Altair's business was not with him, hence he would ignore his worthless existence.

Rising to stand, he began to run and jump across the uneven surfaces of the roofs, his ears twitching and awaiting to catch the voice of the female.

But by God, Altair would not deny the thunderous rage he experienced when he saw the woman's body go limp under the water her father pressed her in. He was about to jump down and introduce his blade into his fat neck if he hadn't brought her back up.

And yet, he couldn't help but acknowledge how well she played her part. Under the heavy stress and pain, she still pulled it through. Albeit she had not suffered the same kind of pain Altair had in training, she still felt a different kind. And still strived.

Pride aside, it was half wrong of him to assume she'd not be able to withstand the Templars tortures because she seemed determined enough protect what was important to her no matter the consequences. Like the way she had shielded her mother. But he'd not press further. Until the mission succeeded, he would guard his judgements well.

Now his jaw ached from all the times he fiercely worked it when witnessing Farah's cries and beatings, and his shoulder burned hotly more than it should have. Perhaps he overdid his activities. Paying them no heed, he continued his mission.

Just when he was about to come to the edge of the roof, the, "Sarah, I'm sorry but not now. Leave me be," comment caused him to pause midway. He angled his head at the familiar sound.

"But, my Lady, I prepared medicine. Please, allow me to—"

"Sarah." Was the clipped retort.

Silence followed. Then, "Yes, my lady. Good night."

"Good night," he heard Farah mutter softly.

He could make out the whine as her wooden door opened and closed, indicating the servant was no longer in the woman's chamber. He stomped to where the voices had come from, and, spotting a wide window near the edge of the building, noiselessly jumped down on the windows low parapet. The curtains were drawn aside, thus allowing him to look into the half-lit dark room. Only one candle seemed to be going, and it was stationed next to the king-sized bed, aiding his vision outline the bump beneath the covers. It shifted and slowly rose up and down due to deep inhalations.

Examining the other areas of the chamber, Altair double-checked to know nobody else was in there except the female. And no one was. Unsheathing his Hidden Blade and angling it sideways, he expertly pressed it between the small crevice between the two wooden frames and dragged the lock up until it softly clicked open the outlet.

He pushed one wooden frame aside and, as gently as one can be, lurked into the room. Focusing his attention on the quiet bed, Altair silently strolled towards it, his feet emitting no unnecessary sounds.

A sudden pained moan echoed through the room, briefly causing him to halt. The figure below the covers shifted, grunted, then shifted again.

"Ow," Farah hissed, then swore, surprising him. After she fell into deep silence, only then did he continue on his mission. Reaching the elegantly carved wooden bedpost, his eyes trailed to her form and watched as she rested. The candle allowed him to study her in the limelight, her figure and features shadowed.

She was lying on her left, the blanket brought close to her chin. He could see the side of her face. Her brow was drawn tight in evident pain, and sweat beaded her temple.

"Stop hurting, damn you," she grunted out, protectively hugging her right side. Altair examined her current condition, and worked his jaw behind the hood.

His doing. This was his doing. He knew his Creed came first—always—and his mission was more important than her wishes, but nothing could stop the ache of self-hatred that attacked his chest. He had saved her, yes, but he had also given her up just as fast. Because of his orders, she was here, back to the last place she'd want to be, and writhing in absolute pain. He wanted to at least make it tolerable working with him.

Spotting two bowls, small cloth, and flat leaves on the nightstand next to the candle, Altair gently cupped the one with cold water. The other one contained a soft substance, ointment to be exact and most probably herbal. Sinking the small cloth inside the bowl of cold water, he stared at the figure to his right.

Without warning, Altair pressed one knee on the soft surface, and leaned down. At the weight of his built body, the surface caved inwardly, causing the figure of the female to lazily lean towards him. Farah instantly noticed the change.

Gasping, she abruptly turned, shouting out a, "Who's there— Ow!" She grabbed her side, wincing.

Altair shushed her by placing a gloved hand on her shoulder. "It is only I."

Her eyes slightly enlarged. "Altair," she breathed out, his name on her lips not one of question but a statement. "Oh, wait. I'm sorry, don't kill me for saying your name. I was just surprised, that is all. Really."

He frowned. He wasn't even thinking about her error, which was odd of him for he caught on to almost everything. But, for now, he'd withhold his promise to rip out her tongue. She needed it for the mission, he reminded himself, and not because performing such an act suddenly gripped at him.

"I informed you I'd visit to check if everything was in order," he said instead.

She nodded, her hand slowly reaching for the blanket—that had edged down to her thighs—and drawing it closer to her side. His brows slightly furrowed at the move.

"I didn't know you'd come this early. And by that I don't mean the time but day." She swallowed, beads of sweat still forming on her forehead. In the manner in which she refused to even flinch when she looked like she was screaming on the inside, Altair realized she was trying her best to keep her composure cool and neutral. As if to indicate all was well. He also caught the movement of her hand as it secured her injured side almost too hastily.

Understanding dawned, and Altair slightly straightened. She didn't want him to find out about her injury. Why? And he wasn't holding the bowl of cold water in his hand just for the sake of it. It seems she has yet to see it for she only stared at his face.

"All is good. I told my father everything you wanted me to, hence do not worry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm quite exhausted. So why don't you—"

"Reveal me your injury." Altair bluntly cut her off.

"What?" she croaked out, her brows knitting together.

"Do not think I was not there, witnessing you get abused. I saw everything, female. Hide from me not."

Farah opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again only to lay in absolute silence. Her eyes cast downwards, and she pouted. "I was hoping you did not see that."

"Why?"

"Because!" she exclaimed, laughing with no trace of humour. "Because it's so... wrong. Humiliating. Do you not get it?"

"Enlighten me." He sat down on the bed, beside her, and swung his legs up, caring not about the silky clean covers under his booted feet as he crossed them at the ankles. He placed the bowl on his lap, and craned his neck to stare down at her, silently commanding she continue. She didn't disappoint, nor did she mind his boots on her royal covers.

"It's just... well, he beat me up. I was, ah—" she winced, grabbing her side. "I was helpless and— ow, ow, ow." She groaned. Rolling his eyes, Altair gave her shoulder a push with his two fingers, provoking her to lose her balance and slump down on her pillow. She humphed, closing her eyes and biting her lower lip.

"Thanks," she muttered. "Didn't know for how long I could've kept that up."

"Speak."

She sighed, fluttering her lashes up and staring intently at the ceiling. Her mind wandered off for a few heartbeats before, finally, she chose to answer. "He drowned me," she murmured, her voice carrying a trace of slight hurt. "Brought me to my knees and proved to me how powerless, worthless, and hopeless I really am. I would rather die than let someone witness my defeated form."

Performing a tiny jump, she turned away from him, going back to resting on her left. Her silky covers slid down to the slope of her waist, revealing him her braided hair and pale linen night gown. She smelled of sweet jasmine and honey, her scent suddenly enveloping him from all sides. Her smooth, creamy skin was devoid of any dirt and smudges, indicating she had washed up. He dropped his gaze from her back. He didn't understand why he was analysing her so intently, hence he instantly shoved the insignificant thoughts away.

"You have not been defeated, female." Altair sighed, yet again not comprehending the reason why he chose to console her. He witnessed what had occurred in the garden, was informed everything was going according to plan, hence why was he prolonging his stay?

Farah snorted, murmuring, "Yeah, say that to my injury."

"It is but an injury, woman. Shall I remind you that you are on a mission? Accept that it will not be easy; you will stumble and fall and earn a few scratches, but keep in mind that the true price is the result. Your father knows not of this plan, and that already states you victorious. Perhaps he may triumph now but once the result of this mission reveals itself, he will acknowledge he had never won in the first place and that you, female, always had the upper hand. You will have the final laugh, worry not. Hence, always venture forwards, woman. Always."

Farah released an entertained chuckle, causing her shoulders to shake. "You are an evil mastermind."

"I am only accepting reality and stating the truth."

"Yeah," she sighed, "I know. But it does not change the fact that you witnessed what you, well, witnessed. And speaking of, if you saw everything, why are you here?"

She craned her neck to look up at him, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Altair merely shrugged. "To double check, of course. And because you were injured. Speaking of, you have yet to reveal it to me."

Her lips parted and she looked taken aback. Then, blinking rapidly, she croaked out, "It's no biggie; just a small, teenie, little— ow!"

He arched his brow at her. She licked her lips.

"No, it is quite alright. I can manage." She turned away from him, bringing her covers up to her chin. "I'm fine."

"I will not judge you," he gently reassured. "I simply need to see if it'll embrace problems and stall our mission."

"And," she swallowed, "And if it does?" It emerged barely as a whisper and he had to strain his ears to hear, but hear he did and that caused him to straighten. He'll have none of that; already he was tardy.

"Then I suggest you show me it. Now." His stern voice left no room for arguments. He spotted her figure stiffen, then Farah sighed.

"Please leave. I'm tired," came the soft reply.

Like hell he would. He was not her servant to command and dismiss. He was Altair Ibn La-Ahad, he only took orders from Al Mualim, and even then he presented stubbornness. Working his jaw for most probably the hundredth time today, he thought how adamant this woman turned out to be. Altair watched her back in silence, noticing how she refused to even twitch.

Cocking his head to the side, he leisurely outstretched his gloved hand, and gently placed it on the curve of her waist.

An instant gasp followed, and her muscles locked together, making her rigid. When she offered nothing else, Altair boldly ventured on, lightly grabbing the soft material of her gown and pulling it from below the covers.

Farah lay utterly frozen, as though afraid to even breathe, when the material fully pooled around her waist. He needed to know if it was severe. Only when her bare skin began to show, she instantly reacted, grabbing his wrist in a snap. Altair shifted his gaze on her. She still stubbornly faced away from him, her breathing deep and calculated.

For a long while she kept her tight grasp on his wrist, not letting him go but also not allowing him to continue. Then, finger by finger, her clasp gradually loosened. She breathed in deeply, shifting in her bed to a more comfortable position. Altair's brows slightly furrowed, not really comprehending her motives.

With a frown, he fisted her silky gown once more and smoothly dragged it up until it reached her waist. Then, with his index finger, he mildly grazed the material aside. Inch by delicate inch, her father's crime revealed itself, provoking Altair's fingers to curl into a tight fist. So much so that even his knuckles leached out of colour. He grit his teeth at the image before him.

In the deep limelight, he could evidently make out the biggest bruise he's ever beheld in his life. The injury crawled from the centre of her hip to all the way across her right lower ribs, close to her spine, and dipping inside her undergarment that was shielded by the silky covers.

"_Shall I kill him?_" Altair suddenly voiced in a flat and deadly voice. This time, his words held no trace of a joke or reason to lighten up her mood, they were serious and he was awaiting permission as he'd do when standing before Al Mualim. All he needed was one word and the deed would be done.

Farah was no fool, she caught the meaning behind his words.

"No," she evenly retorted, "Do not."

"As you wish," he replied in defeat. He, the man, _assassin_, who eliminated nefarious men, could not destroy the one that, unreasonably, infuriated him the most. Was it not his job to strike down such men? But no matter what reason he came up with, the least he could do at the moment was honour her words.

As she lay in silence, Altair grabbed the cloth floating in the bowl, squeezed the water out, and dabbed it across her blue, purple, and red skin. She gasped, buried her face deeper into her pillow, but uttered no other complaint. He cleansed her bruise with the cold water and once done, he placed it on the nightstand and reached out for the one with the ointment.

As she lay with her face buried in her pillow, Altair dipped two fingers inside the bowl, covering them with the medicine, and dragged them back to her smooth, bruised skin.

Unconsciously, Farah started to nibble on her lower lip as he started to gently rub the ointment across her waist and hip. At some point, he accidently pressed too hard, earning an "Ow!" and a smack across the face from her.

Altair stood frozen for a while, his brow arching up at her reaction. _Nobody_ ever slapped him before. Nobody even _dared_ to.

Farah blushed a bright crimson in the candle-light, muttering a, "Sorry. Reflex."

"_My_ reflex when someone strikes me is to strike them back," he provided with a hint of warning in his cold tone. "But you do not see me acting upon it. Control it."

Her blush deepened, but she stubbornly lifted her chin up. "I said I was sorry, and I will try to be careful next time—only if you'll extend me the same courtesy."

"Then I shall."

"Good." With that, she went to burying her face into her fluffy pillow. She acted like a wounded panther, ready to snarl and bite if you dared to provoke her hurt further. Hence Altair wisely chose to treat her bruise instead, doing his outmost best not to—intentionally or unintentionally—press a sensitive spot. For one, her fiery outbursts were amusing to witness, and he preferred her in that manner. Strong, protective, and an absolute, daring fighter. He suddenly frowned. What was with his praising of her as of lately? But then again, experiencing the abuse from the one that had sired you was not any easy feet to get over. Thus, he tread his way around her in caution.

"You have hands just like my mother's," Farah lazily mumbled.

At her muffled words, he arched a brow up. "Uh," he found himself stalling, not knowing if he should take her statement as an insult or a compliment.

She laughed, the action causing his hand to accidently slip down the curve of her waist due to the slickness of the ointment. Her muscles released a tiny quiver in response.

"I didn't mean to call them feminine. You have a special way with your hands, as if they possessed a brain and could think for themselves. Just like my mama's. They move in an organized manner, you can say. Like where to press deeper, where to loosen, where to grip but not too tightly, and where to smoothly drag. When to use the back of your palm or when to lightly press with your fingertips. I could go on and on about this," she laughed again. This time he stopped his hand from sliding down.

"But, yes, it was meant as a compliment. Out of all the massages I've received, you top the second best. Right after my mother's, of course. Now don't just sit there, start massaging." With a small smile, she snuggled deeper into her puffed pillow, waiting for him to start.

Altair briefly shook his head, and got back to spreading the ointment.

Even if he desired to put an end to her recent words, one sentence kept on starting up the fire.

_Out of all the massages I've received, you top the second best._

_Out of all the massages I've received..._

When he could no longer hold it in, he coolly said, "So you let number of people touch you this way?" Even if his voice was calm, low, there was a bit of harshness to it.

At his words, Farah turned her whole body around, not realizing his palm skid over her flat navel, as her brows furrowed and her eyes frosted. "What do you mean?" she evenly asked.

"You stated you received massages." Altair easily explained himself, removing his hand away from her stomach. She noticed its absence, and her eyes slightly flickered down at his fingers before flickering back at him.

"Yeah," she admitted, shrugging. "My many female servants and mama. So what?"

At her bluntness, he understood he had indirectly insulted her.

"Nothing," he sighed, "Turn back around before you ruin the sheets with the medicine."

She snorted, obeying him as she flipped to her side. "You do realize you have your muddy boots resting on my sheets, right?"

"Yes." Was all he offered before he started running his firm fingers across her soft body. Now, he massaged more than he spread, attempting to ease the stern muscles before wrapping up the injury.

Altair's gaze flickered to the side and caught Farah's fingers tightly _clutching_ the covers for dear life. He slightly cocked his head to the side. When the clutching tightened even harder, her knuckles literally leaching of colour, only then did Altair halt his ministrations.

He frowned, and thought he heard a stifled deep sigh. He ignored it and asked softly, evenly, "Am I hurting you?"

"What?" Farah blurted out, opening her eyes and looking up at him sideways. He instantly, despite with her features somewhat shadowed, spotted the teeth marks on her plump lower lip that were gradually waning away. She was digging her teeth into that soft petal while he massaged.

That only proved he hurt her, and she refused to voice it out loud. Whether to appear strong or not to scare him away—he nearly scoffed—Altair refused to ponder over it.

"You could have just said so," he let out, rising to his feet. His gaze searched for a material that could wrap around her waist. It was not on the nightstand.

"Said what?" she asked, genuinely confused. "Alta— I mean, Mr. Huff &amp; Puff, you lost me."

"Do not call me nicknames," he growled in distaste.

"But it's fun," she admitted with a grin on her face. Was it solely him or was she being completely open and carefree as of lately? He didn't know what brought the sudden change and he did not care. He was the cold-blooded killer and she simply the victim in his cruel game. And yet, Altair thought, he did not care for that either.

Carelessness, it sure would get a man killed. And Altair was not a man who made mistakes easily.

"I do not see how poking at an assassin's temper like a child with a stick is fun," he provided, still searching for a damn wrapper.

"Well now you just sucked the fun out of it. Besides, what else should I call you?"

"Nothing at all," he replied, walking further away from the bedpost.

"Well, Mr. Nothing at—"

"Female," he snapped, turning on his heels to face her. "You really fancy to tempt a man to unsheathe his blade, don't you?"

To his surprise, she laughed. "You make me laugh more than anyone did in a decade. I don't doubt your skills, really. It's just easy to click a nerve in you."

"And you find that amusing?" Altair arched a brow.

She shrugged, lying back down. "You were not hurting me, by the way," she let out in the heavy silence. Altair gazed at her from the shadows of his hood before walking back to the her bed, and took hold of the wide, flat leaves.

"Do you own a wrapper?" He coolly asked, giving up his search.

She didn't bother sparing him a look as she, eyes still fastened at the ceiling, raised her arm and pointed a slender finger at a dark corner. "There is a cabinet and on the third shelf you shall see numerous wrappers."

_Numerous wrappers._ Altair frowned, the urge to rip out her father's trachea rising to a dangerous level. He strode to the said corner, opened the cabinet, and grabbed a random wrapper. His eyes had long adjusted to the darkness, hence it was easy for him to find his way back.

"Found it?" she asked.

Instead of answering her, he chose to slowly ascent down on the bed, causing the object to slightly whine due to his weight. Yet again her body leaned towards him, and she fluttered her lashes up to gaze up at him. She sweetly smiled.

Gradually rising, she made sure her lower and upper body were shielded, only revealing him her curved waist—where the injury resided. Her night gown held below her ribcage, shielding almost everything, she waited for him.

He flipped the flat leaves and pressed their soft and cool surface on her inured side.

"Hold them for me," Altair ordered, reaching for the wrapper. She complied, hugging the leaves to her side while he stretched the wrapper and then began to wrap her waist up. The process took more time than it should have, provoking him to gently sneer.

In the silence, while he worked, he felt the female's eyes on him. She was watching him. Not desiring to play the naïve fool, he asked her straightforward, "What?"

"Nothing," she immediately replied, snatching her eyes off him. Then, clearing her throat, she said, "I just find it peculiar how one day you promise death and the next... well, here you are. Caring for me. Why?"

He tore the wrapper's end into two, tightly tying them around her waist, and making sure the embrace of the warm wrapper would help her sleep.

She dropped her gown down, and it formed a pool around her, then, lying back down, she threw the covers above her. "My side is burning, but it's the good kind of burning," she mumbled lazily, and warmly smiled. "It's funny how light I feel in comparison to how tight you have tied it around me. Almost as though its holding my organs in place so they won't splatter out."

Altair spared her odd descriptions an answer as he rose. "Where may I cleanse my hands?"

"Oh, here. I will show you." With needed effort, Farah rose from her cozy bed and limped her way to him. Grabbing the candle from its holder, she lead him towards the dimness. They entered another room that was connected to her bedroom, and halted before a wooden counter. Despite the flickering candle providing little light, Altair could still evidently make out the objects that usually belonged to a washroom.

He instantly caught the sweet scent of jasmine, briefly causing his nostrils to flare.

Farah placed the candle on the wooden counter and took hold of a white curved cask, gently tipping it down. Altair positioned his gloved hands—cut from the fingers—above a wide porcelain bowl, and patiently waited for Farah to begin pouring the water.

The clear liquid swirled down, softly splashing on his fingers. He rubbed them, attempting to get the medicine off while at the same time avoiding to wet the edges of his leather gloves. Much to his dismay, the ointment had contained oil. He grunted in irritation, his brows forming a deep frown. He hated when this happened.

"Let me remove my gloves," he said, straightening to get this over with. The water stopped pouring. Farah placed the washroom cask down on the counter, and said, "Splay your fingers wide."

Altair didn't see why he should object, hence he complied. She inched towards him, and he suddenly felt her body heat caress him in the proximity of their figures. He worked his jaw at the meaningless thought.

With her fingertips, she pinched each edge of the finger-holes of his glove, and smoothly pulled. This time, Altair watched her, his eyes taking in her concentrated features. Her brows were slightly drawn together, her long lashes forming shadows on her cheeks as her eyes focused on his hands, and her... he instantly released a low growl, acutely knowing his sense of thought.

Dear God, he was about to say _her kissable, plump lips_. What in God's name was the matter with him? He'd not allow such puny musings to get the best of him. He was better than this.

"Can you just be patient for once?" she said, eyes still on his hands. "Instead of growling like some madman."

He responded to her by growling again. She _tsked_, briefly shaking her head. Then, fidgeting his gloves carefully, so as to avoid brushing it against his oily fingers, she gently dragged the leather out of his hand. She performed the same with his other hand, and placed the gloves on the counter.

Taking hold of the cask one again, she began pouring the water. "There is a soap to your right," she provided in the midst of her aiding. Wordlessly, he clasped it and began scrubbing his hands.

The scent of sweet jasmine drifted to his nostrils, briefly causing him to halt.

How surprising, he thought dryly.

Once done, Farah lend him a towel, watching him as he dried his hands. He rolled his eyes in the shadows.

"What?" he coldly asked again.

"You never answered my question," she said, leaning against the wall for support.

"What question?"

This time, she rolled his eyes. "One moment you are promising me death and the next—bam—you are caring for me. I just wanted to know... why."

Altair scoffed, hiding his real intentions, and played it natural. "For the mission, obviously. You declined your servant's offer, thus I concluded to finish the job. I do not desire for unnecessary problems." That was true. It irked him knowing how tardy he already was.

Farah stared at him for a long time before, finally, she jerkily nodded.

"The mission's success. Yes, you are right. No more delays." With her abruptly answered monotone words, she turned away from him and limped out of the washing room, clearly leaving him dumbfounded.

Placing the towel on the wooden counter, he put on his leather gloves and, taking hold of the candle, he followed suit.

The woman was already safely tucked in bed, the covers drawn up to her chin.

He padded to the side of the bed, placed the candle back on the nightstand, and coolly said, "You are upset."

"No I'm not." Was the clipped retort.

He couldn't help himself—he chuckled darkly. "Our day has not truly ended but for some peculiar reason, I seem to read you better than I do Rafiq."

She shifted below the blankets so she could see him. "You're bluffing. I'm simply tired, that is all."

He shrugged. "If you say so, but it is evident—"

A sudden knock erupted from behind her door, causing both to instantly stiffen. Altair's head whipped towards the direction of the wooden barrier, his Hidden Blade already unsheathed.

"Lady Farah?" a confused female voice said from behind the door as Farah whispered out a fierce, "What do you think you are doing?!" to Altair as she caught the sight of his blade. He lifted one finger to silence her, his gaze still fastened on the door.

"Is everything alright?" the voice behind the door asked.

No response.

"I'm coming in," was the brief warning the female voice gave before the door burst open.

A hand pulled him. Covers shuffled. And in the darkness, a slender finger gently slid up the length of his throat, brushed his firm jaw, and pressed against his lips, the barely audible "Shhh" echoing between faces that were only a whisper away.

Altair lay on top of the woman, her arms protectively wrapped around his neck. He frowned, but not deep enough. As his forehead forcibly leaned against hers, she cast him an apologetic look before forming a fake cough.

"What do you want, Sarah?" she mimicked a sleepy tone. Her hot breath fanned against his cheeks, and the assassin felt something odd crawl up the length of his spine.

"Oh. You're here. I mean, uh, I just thought you were being kidnapped. Silly me."

Both Farah and Altair rolled their eyes simultaneously.

"I'm well and safe. Now, leave me to my rest."

"Of course. I was just passing by when I heard noises, but since you are well, I apologize. But, um, do you need help with your... injury?"

"No, I'm good. Thank you, Sarah."

"Okay. Call me if you need anything, my Lady."

"I will." Farah reassured her.

A beat of silence passed. Then, "I swear I heard another voice—"

"Sarah," Farah firmly interrupted. Her servant sighed. "Yes, Lady Farah. Sweetest dreams to you."

With that, the door gently closed with a soft click.

Farah instantly tossed the covers aside, and breathed in deep. "I pulled you in so fast, your armoury hit my bruise."

Altair lifted himself off from her delicate body's embrace, and sat at the edge of the bed. It seemed at the instant contact, his Hidden Blade had pierced through the pillow to the female's right, provoking feathers to fly out.

"Do not ever do that again," Altair growled in clear distaste. That pillow could've been her throat. Did this woman even care? He reassured himself the worry was because of the mission, and not because seeing her blood coating his blade would have utterly devastated him.

"I saved you from an unneeded introduction, so I will take that as a thank you. And, why yes, you are welcome." Farah winced, grabbing her side.

He sighed. "Rest now. I shall make an appearance tomorrow." He rose from the bed and walked over to the burning candle, in the process of blowing it out. But the sudden, "Wait! Don't do that," from the female caused him to pause. He looked at her.

She swallowed. "I... want it on."

He arched a dark brow at her. "Why? You are going to rest, no?"

"Yeah. But, like, I need it on." She retorted with a clipped and defensive tone.

Altair suddenly straightened, his lips twitching. _You have got to be kidding me_, he thought with amusement.

"You are afraid of the dark, aren't you?" He asked with sheer mischief in his tone. Farah narrowed her eyes at him, cheeks reddening in the limelight.

"No..." she weakly retorted.

Altair chuckled darkly. An idea suddenly popped in his mind, causing a grin to lift the corner of his lips. Farah frowned at his expression.

"Why are... you smiling like that?" She uneasily asked.

"Like what?" he questioned innocently, fingers brushing past the burning fire and causing it to flicker.

"Like you are about to perform something mischievous." The moment she uttered those words, her eyes instantly widened in understanding. "Don't you dare—!"

Too late. Altair pinched the burning candle out with the tips of his fingers, only leaving plain darkness.

Farah gasped sharply. "Oh my God!"

Altair tilted his head to side as he began to circle around her bed like a predatory shark. Because his trained hawk eyes had long adjusted to the dark, he could perfectly make out her frightened expression. She had the sheets clutched tightly to her chest, and her eyes frantically searched the darkness for something.

For him.

She was scared. Oh, was she scared.

Altair stopped at the edge of the bed, and silently gazed down at her.

"Why is there a woman with bloodied face resting on your side?" He mimicked a genuine confused voice. Farah instantly reacted in a beat.

"What?! Oh my God," she cried out in panic, shuffling away from the spot she sat on. "Stop it! This is not funny!"

"She is gawking at you."

"Stop it!"

"She is inching towards you, probably desiring to claw out your eyes with her long, sharp nails."

Farah issued a whimper. "No, she's not. There's no one here, you are bluffing."

"Then why is she extending her hand, as if to grab your leg?"

"Liar!" she released a trembling voice with a desperate urge to calm herself, but still found herself moving away. Altair pulled the edges of the covers.

"Why... Why are my covers shifting? What is happening?"

"She is pulling you towards herself," he coolly provided with a flat tone.

"No," she softly cried out. "Don't do that, please. Oh, mama."

He didn't stop. "She's about to grab your leg."

Panicked, Farah started to scramble all the way to the edge of her bed.

"Faster, she is coming for you!"

"Shut up!" she panicked.

"Quicker, female, or else she will grab you—" Altair's fingers snapped around her revealed ankle, and he jerked her back "—leg!"

At that moment, his ears swallowed the loudest scream he's ever heard in his life, piercing though his eardrums like hundreds of sharp needles.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Farah shrieked, kicking her legs out. Her kicks were so forcefully powerful, even his hold on her slipped and he was aimed straight in the abdomen. Numerous times. Altair wanted to smile at her reaction but instead a gush of air escaped his lips as another kick hit him.

"Calm down, it is only I." Altair cooed, moving away from her flailing legs and taking hold of her shoulders.

"Altair?" she gasped out in relief. There it was again, his name rolling off her tongue. Then, "Altair," she gritted out in sudden fury. Her kicks halted and he could feel the heat of her anger as it warmed his skin. She sneered.

"Why you bastard!" she let out, fighting against his firm clasp on her shoulders.

Altair released another dark chuckle. "Calm down," he said.

"No! I will not calm down, you madman! You nearly caused me to have a heart attack!"

He abruptly released her, stepping away from her raging form. She followed suit, jumping up from the mattress and limping her way to him.

He casually walked up to the open window. "This was... unlikely amusing. I shall try this again in the coming days." Altair coolly provided as he jumped up on the window. A cool breeze fluttered past him and into the room.

"You will do no such thing!" Farah shot back, finally stopping before the open window. Altair knelt down, balancing his weight on his toes. Farah narrowed her eyes up at him, her cheeks fuming with anger. His lips twitched.

"I will make an appearance tomorrow, as I've stated, hence take all the rest you can get." He unknowingly chucked her under the chin.

"Oh, of course," she smugly replied. This time, he allowed the smile to curve his lips. In the silvery moonlight, his eyes could evidently make out how her features stilled, her eyes on his lower face. She licked her lips, briefly drawing his gaze on them, and stared up at him with wide brown eyes.

The smile on his face slowly dropped as he noticed her inching her way towards him. Her shoulders brushed his knees, and her sweet scent mingled deliciously with the cold breeze blowing into her chamber.

Her lashes fluttered up at him and she rose on her tip-toes. He frowned, his throat suddenly going dry. What was she... His heart thumped almost too painfully against his ribcage.

A few seconds past while Farah gazed up at him through sparkling brown pools.

Then, "Altair," she softly murmured his name, causing his back to straighten a little.

"What?" he bluntly retorted.

She blinked at him, and the tension was suddenly gone. "Enjoy your fall."

Before he could understand the meaning behind her words, hands abruptly pushed at him. His lips parted and his eyes widened in surprise.

She had pushed him. Had freaking pushed him off of her damn window.

Altair fell downwards, air whooshing out of his parted lips. Before his head could splatter open, he flipped mid-air and was barely able to land on his feet. Even the fall wasn't gentle. The contact caused his stiffened muscles to painfully strain, a jerky wave to vibrate up the length of his spine, and his lower and upper jaw to clack against each other. But all he released was a fierce grunt.

Altair straightened, stretched, and gazed up at her closed window. With narrowing eyes, he began walking away.

But, in the midst of his fall, he swore he saw the female form one of the sweetest smiles and wave at him.

-x-

**AN****: **_Reviews are most welcome! :)_


	10. Chapter 10

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Ten

1190, Damascus, Syria

_Expert fingers dragged along her naked flesh, lightly pressing her sides and gifting her belly with quivers._

A soft sigh escaped her lips.

_Then, causing her to stiffen, they gently rubbed her waist, provoking the flutters in her belly to melt and spread heat down to her lower body._

She groaned, flipping over to her back.

_It felt so good. So, so, so gooood. They were merciless as firm thumbs pressed while at the same time dragged along the curve of her waist. She deeply sighed in evident approval. Yes, like that. Just... like... that. With wicked fashion, those familiar hands roamed to the back of her spine, and dug the heels of their palms against her skin and gently__—oh, so gently—rubbed in circular motions._

Her spine curved inwards in satisfaction.

_Then, just as passionately as they started, the hands stopped. Just stopped. She frowned. "Why did you stop?"_

_No answer._

_"Hey, come back. Massage me once more."_

_They didn't. Suddenly angry, she flipped around and released an angry, "Hey!"_

Her eyes snapped open as she abruptly jerked in her sleep. Blinking once, twice, Farah eyed her room in confusion. Beautifully curved wooden and golden ceiling, white bed sheets and pillow, and her thick silky comforter warming her until her waist.

Frowning, she rose to a sitting position and rubbed at her sleepy eyes. What a weird dream...

Last night's events suddenly rushed back to her, causing her to swiftly straighten her back. Last night... Altair was here. Wait, wasn't... he?

A little confused due to sleepiness, she lifted the edges of her night gown and peered down to her side. A wrapper securely hugged her middle. Then, gazing at her nightstand, she spotted the two empty bowls, and when she looked at her bed sheet, dark smudges of mud covered it. A smile gradually lifted the corners of her lips. So. He was here and she didn't imagine him massage the purring soul out of her.

Then it came to her, and she released a deep groan of sheer embarrassment. That's why she dreamt of hands massaging her, because his were literally God-sent techniques. And the worst part of it all was that she actually liked it. Loved it. Wanted _more_ of it. Even last night, when he massaged and stopped because he thought he was hurting her, she wanted to smack him once more.

He was actually eliciting... _dark_ foreign sensations from within her when he expertly run those hands around her waist. So much so that she had to clung onto her blanket for dear life to not allow inappropriate sounds escape her lips. And even then, as she barely could control herself, she never desired him to stop. She simply wanted more and more and—

She pressed her cheeks inwardly with her hands, shaking her head No-No. Those were dangerous thoughts. And wishes, so she ignored her inner kitten purring for more. Dream or not, last night was... beautiful. He had taken care of her, even if it was for the mission or not—and that did not _hurt_ her feelings, she reminded herself—hence it left her waking up to a, for once, good morning.

Streams of sunlight shot into her chamber through her window, warming the base of her bed and the floor, and lightened up her mood even further. Stretching out her arms, and releasing a small sound in the process, she yawned loudly. Her side suddenly felt like it was stabbed, hence she abruptly lowered her arms.

"Ouch." She winced, smoothing her hand over her bruise. Where was the assassin, anyways? Was he still asleep someplace else? Maybe having breakfast with some pals?

Then a thought hit her, and she slightly frowned. Now that she actually fathomed it, he never spoke of his past. Just his creed and mission, but never of his family or friends or... Farah's lips slightly dropped into a small pout, did he have a wife? A lover? Even if he did, that shouldn't matter to her. Ever.

And why would he speak of his beloved to her, anyways? But, all her time spent with him—it was only a day, really—she never spotted the golden gleam of a wedding ring. Just his sharp wrist blade. Perhaps he took it off when killing people as a symbol of staying pure in the face of his marriage. What did his guardians think of him, his line of career? Did they approve of him shedding blood?

Did he even have parents?

Farah suddenly raised her head as her eyes widened and lips parted in surprise. Wait... _did_ he actually have a mother... a father? What if he didn't? The exact moment she thought of those words, her chest constricted almost too painfully, and she felt the feeling drop dead on her stomach.

"No," she shook her head, reasoning with herself. "Of course he has parents."

Shaking the aching feeling off her chest, she threw the covers aside and stood up. Squaring her shoulders back to ease off the tension, she trod to her bathroom while all the way consoling the idea of this not mattering to her.

It didn't matter. His past was his as hers was, well, hers. Even if she spilled some beans, she still had other memories.

So it didn't matter.

-x-

After washing up, she emerged from her washroom, all clean and ready to start her day. But, the second she saw a figure sitting on her backless leather sofa positioned before her bedpost, she let out a small scream, almost instantly jumping back.

Altair sat with his elbows digging on his knees and head bowed down, gazing at the floor like it contained all the answers to his questions. At her little scream, he lifted his head and bored his shadowed golden eyes at her person.

"I swear my soul left my body for a millisecond," she heaved in a long breath, trying to calm her pounding heart.

Altair was suddenly struck silent as gazed at her from where he sat. His eyes roamed over her appearance; her skin was a healthy pink, most of it shielded by the silvery night gown she wore that flowed down her body like a waterfall, and her braided hair now open and cascading down her back in bouncy waves. The sunlight streamed past her window and bathed her in its golden glory. Never in his life had he beheld such a... exquisite sight.

She suddenly appeared like a exotic nymph too beautiful to touch, and he had the oddest urge to—when he never in his life picked up a brush before—paint her right here and now, in her dashing morning state. Even if he was going to be bad at it, he desired to make her beauty everlasting.

"Are you still asleep?" she asked, tossing him a mocking frown. "Hello? Back to Farah's Earth, maybe?"

He blinked, and when he refocused on her, she appeared as normal as ever. No glossy glow to her skin even when she shone brighter than the golden rays coming from her window. His recent thoughts were getting irritating.

The assassin looked like he could care less at the moment. At his dazed off expression, Farah released a sigh. "What are you even doing here?" she asked instead, going over to her wardrobe.

"I have told you I'd be visiting," he growled out. "And I do not approve of your actions last night."

"Which ones?" she arched her delicate brow playfully as she opened her closet. "Where I smacked you right across the face or when I told you to get going? Oh-oh, I know, is it where I saved you from an unwanted introduction with Sarah?"

He growled, wanting to slam her closet door shut and shake her by the shoulders to instil a bit of common sense. "Where you pushed me off your window," was his clipped retort.

She giggled. "I know, it was the best thing I've done to you so far. Yay me."

He grit his teeth at her, slightly sneering.

"Anyways," she said, taking out two dresses. "Help me pick. This," she pressed a navy blue dress against her front, "Or this?" It was a green one.

Altair felt something akin to a knife stabbing him straight in his pride. He was a proud assassin, a killer, Al Mualim's favourite student, son of the legendary Umar Ibn La-Ahad, and this _female_ dared to trample on his lethality by asking him _which_ petty dress was better? The audacity!

"None." His tone was rigid and laced with warning.

She merely shrugged. "Well, it is good I have others. Hmm," she tapped her chin as she ransacked her closet for more outfits. Withdrawing two more, she asked, "How about these?" and performed the same moves by pressing them against herself.

Did she not understand him or did she simply not care?

"None," was his clipped comment, his hands balling into fists.

She shrugged again, and did the same moves. Three times. How many dresses did this female even possess? When he replied with his famous, "None," she at last released an exasperated sigh.

"My God," she let out, "You're so bad at this."

He worked his jaw in patience. "Why can you not wear any of your own choosing?"

"I want to know which one complimented me the most from your point of view." She lifted her delicate shoulders in a simple shrug, glancing down at her last dress.

Altair suddenly straightened, his eyes on her. She desired his opinion that much, where she'd put hers beneath his? "Why do you want my compliments?" he questioned.

"Because they look good on me," she smiled, tossing the last dress on a elegantly curved wooden chair. His chest slightly swelled with something akin to... gladness. She took his words and consolations into deep consideration, it seemed. It didn't just go in from one ear and escape from the other. She kept them locked within her mind. Is that how much he effected her?

"Then it was the third one," Altair pointed with a wave of his hand towards the mountain of dresses.

Her eyes shone a brilliant brown. "I knew you had some fashion sense in you, assassin."

Aaand there goes his pride out the window. He sighed, shaking his head. With a grunt—his muscles slightly stiff due to sleeping on the roof—he stood and made his way towards her.

She stood before her long mirror, gently running her fingers through her strands. He leaned against her closet and crossed his arms against his chest, watching her as she tamed her wavy lengths with soft caresses.

"Yesterday you asked me why I had long hair," she gently murmured out, eyeing him sideways. "Would you still want to know?"

The interest in Altair piqued in an alarming pace, he felt almost embarrassed at his eagerness. He formed a light shrug. "I would."

"My grandma, Malia, had long hair. But hers was longer, let me tell you. It reached the back of her knees. Can you believe it? I loved it so much," she lightly shook her head, "I recall playing with hers while mine was only until my shoulders. I would braid and toy with it, sometimes tangling it more than it already was."

His eyes followed every soft caress she gave her wavy strands. "She would hate it so much but she'd never send me off. She was..." her eyes cast downwards, her lips slightly pouting. "She was the sweetest and most selfless person I've ever met. She often used to guard me against my father's rage, take me out to parks, and make me breakfast and eat it with me afterwards. She my was best friend. Tell me, do you have a best friend?"

Altair shook his head, not even feeling sad about it. "No, I do not. We... do not have time for such things. We might train, sleep, and eat together, but I wouldn't call any of them my best friend. Brethren, yes. But a singular person closer than that, I'm afraid we aren't capable of such a bond."

"How unfortunate," she uttered, going back to looking at her reflection in the mirror.

He frowned. "Why would you say that?"

"Everybody—even the strongest of people—deserves somebody to share their joy, sadness, hardships and experiences with. It is better to go through life with someone by your side than alone. Sometimes carrying a heavy burden doesn't become so heavy anymore. A bond between two close beings cannot ever be broken; their devotion to one another surpasses every turmoil with steadfastness. They almost become invincible. And I think everybody deserves such a person in their life, even," she fluttered her lashes up at him, a rare softness to her eyes, "to a killer like you."

Altair's lips parted in the silence between them. Dear God, he was going to kill her after their mission and she still gifted him with kind words. He shook his head, clearing his heart from weak sensations and replacing it with coldness and brutality. This world already had more than enough fools; he refused to be one.

"That is the thing about killers, woman, we are not bestowed such privileges. We shed blood not create an oath of loyalty."

She smiled. "Maybe you haven't met him or her yet. Having a best friend also means someone to save you from yourself, the darkest of all enemies. Especially for someone who slaughters."

He arched a brow. "Are you stating I'm incapable of controlling myself to the allures of evil?"

"Nobody is too good or bad, but we seem to stumble upon their borders, and sometimes you need a friend to guide you back to your senses."

"I believe your words to be true, but this why knowledge is to be gained. Once you acknowledge and learn what is wrong and right, you will not be tempted. I've been taught to operate with my sharp mind not tender heart; everything is planned out and strategic. We think, we contemplate, and do what is right for all and not one."

Farah fell silent, then, slowly, formed a nod. "As you have stated. My life for hundreds."

This time he fell silent. Then, "Yes," he uttered, refusing to hold back. In the end, honesty was just that. Honesty. Everybody deserved it no matter their denial.

"Sometimes one soul is equivalent to a thousand," she muttered, "But not in my case, it seems. If you are doing what is best for all and your Creed is just and sharp-minded as you state it to be, then perhaps... you. You are equivalent to a thousand souls."

"Woman—" Altair started but was cut off with her saying, "Now that I have answered yesterday's question, why don't you share the similar generosity?"

He softly sighed. "What do you wish to know?"

She smiled, revealing pearl-white teeth. "I remember asking how you know English?"

Once she finished her caressing, she picked up a few golden pins from the table to the mirror's right, and began collecting her hair above her head.

Altair shook his head; out of all the questions she could've asked, she asked this. But he would not refuse this time. "I know English as I do many others. Our master taught us the best way to deceive a man, more accurately our enemy, is by speaking in his tongue. It aids us in many inconvenient situations and blends us well with the crowd."

She turned to stare at him with wide, entertained eyes. "That is brilliant. Maybe I should learn as well so I know who's talking behind my back. Imagine going, "I understand you," after they've spoken their negative thoughts. Nobody would be able to cool off such a burn."

Despite his serious answer, his lips twitched at hers.

"So tell me," she asked, failing to get a long strand in the bun at the back of her head, "How many languages do you—ugh," she let out when the strand twirled down, causing her to fist it once more. "How many languages do you speak?"

Altair examined her as she struggled with her hair, muttering curses once every few seconds. When the strand fell out again, she fumed in anger. He briefly chuckled, surprising himself by closing the distance between them.

Farah abruptly stilled in her actions when Altair's reflection appeared from behind her, his silvery arched hood shadowing his features.

He gently took hold of the soft locks and brought it up. Her eyes watched him with intense silence as he fisted the bun on her head, provoking a gasp to escape her, and rolling the naughty strand into its place before, with a soft glide, pinning it with one of her pins.

"Sarah," she croaked out, licking her suddenly dry lips, "She, uh, used to do my hair... before. I thought I could do it," she released a shaky laugh when he brought another strand up and gently pinned it.

"Hmm," he released, not really paying attention to her words_—_or her flushed cheeks, for that matter. She swallowed, and lifted her chin up in stubbornness. He was simply helping her with her long hair. So what? Yeah, say that to her fluttering heart. Oh, God.

"Shall I answer your question?" he asked, his hot breath fanning her nape and causing the hairs to stand erect. A shiver rocked her entire form, and she felt her knees slightly shake. All because he exhaled on her neck.

"Y...Yes," she murmured, ignoring the sudden sensation it brought her stomach when the tip of his nose brushed against her skin.

"I know," he continued locking strands into the bun as she kept on handing him pins, "Seven in total, excluding Arabic, my mother tongue."

Her eyes widened. "What? Really?"

He nodded, his nose once again brushing against her neck. She pressed her lips together to smother the sound of approval.

"What... are they?" she almost breathlessly asked while watching him work behind her. Such an odd contrast. She white where he was dark. Soft where he was hard. Gentle where he was rough. Almost breakable whereas he was strong. His shoulders were broad enough to embrace her, and she really, _really_ desired to lean against him. His male heat, just like in the rain. It caressed her body like a gentle lover.

"English, French, Italian, Latin, Old Norse, Hebrew, and even Aramaic." Each word was whispered into her neck, his hot breath feeding more fire to the one in the pit of her belly. The room's temperature suddenly rose, and she felt her body gradually burn up. What was this? Just a few moments ago she was completely fine. Now...

"That's incredible," she hoarsely said. "So _good_." The last part was directed at the feeling he elicited when his finger accidently skidded over her nape, causing her to slightly squirm to shake off the shivers. Oh, God. _This was..._ she bit her lower lip. Hard.

"All done," Altair uttered, looking at her eyes from the mirror. Her expression might've taken him by surprise because he found himself stilling, his full lips gently parting.

Her cheeks were a bright red, her pupils dilated, and her neck slightly tilted to the side in a greedy whine for more.

"Farah! Are you awake, darling?" a voice suddenly shouted from behind her door, causing both Altair and Farah to immediately step away from each other. Her eyes were wild with alarm, and she placed her hand on her rushing heart.

"Oh, darling. It is already past seven. Rise, my love, I come to you with a plan for today." It was her mother. The handle to the door suddenly twisted, the hinges squealed, and burst in her mother into her room, her dress flowing behind her.

"Oh," she abruptly stilled, her eyes on Farah. "You are already up. How appropriate."

Her brows furrowed, and she parted her lips to speak, "W-What?"

Frantic eyes gazing to her right, left, front and back, she found no sign of the assassin. Her insides gradually relaxed. He was gone. Okay, alright. That was good.

"Mama," she said in evident relief. "What are you doing here?"

Her mother smiled, and she noticed the bruise on her cheek was slightly gone. She must've covered it up with face powder. Her insides gently ached at that thought. _Oh, mama_.

"I have plans for us today," her mother warmly smiled, eyes twinkling. "We shall go to the Souk today and purchase some necessities for your wedding. Despite your evident disapproval, would you still like to accompany your mama?"

Farah might find it displeasing, she even felt her mood blacken, but the result of the mission was the only thing that helped her keep her cool. She'd do it for her mother.

"Anything for you, mama," she warmly smiled. "When do we go?"

Her mother's features brightened. "Oh, this is exciting!" she walked up to Farah, clasping her cheeks. "Oh, dear, you are burning up. Perhaps it is your injury. Let me aid you with it. And oh," she caressed her hair, and smiled in affection, "Did you do your own hair? It looks messy, my darling, but quite adorable on you. Should we first dress you up or do your hair? I will call Sarah now and we will..."

Her mother's voice trailed on and on as she shuffled around Farah's room, picking up this and that, while Altair hung outside below the parapet of the woman's window, listening to her mother babble nonsense with barely even properly drawing in air.

This was going to be long day.

-x-

The blazing rays of the glaring sun floating in the clear sky burned her head. She was half afraid if she touched it, it would scald her palm. Imagine her surprise when her strands didn't just singe away. How long has it been—one hour? Two?—since two servants, her mother and Farah, ventured out to the crowded Souk?

She wanted to return to the cool shades of her room. Just the thought of her bed nearly provoked her to break into tears of wanting. Sighing in evident loss, she instead concluded to tune into the conversation her mother was having with her.

"—We got the silks, Persian shawls, good amount of fashionable shoes, and countless expensive dresses for you to parade in. Now we need a few decorations for your future home; soft carpets, royal bed-sheets, for sure curtains of your liking, and—"

Farah tuned her off yet again, already losing interest. Really, there was no need for all of this. There might be a good chance she wouldn't live in her "new home" due to Edwardo being, well, dead. Perhaps she could rule his estate as the mourning widow, but then again, she had to first get married to him. Which would never happen. And living in his home would be disastrous; for so long has she entertained the idea of having her own cosy cottage somewhere secluded and away from people, residing within it with her volumes of poets and poems. Just her and the beautiful silence. Just her and the moment.

Just her and her mama.

Drawing her attention back at her mother, she said, "Mother, why bother spending money for things unneeded?"

Her mother shrugged with no care in the world. "I've been given the chance to spend that bastard's money, and I took it. I'll spend it to the point where he'd regret he ever allowed such an action, and feel no remorse. Besides, I want you to have the best of the best, my dearest."

Farah smiled. "Then let's shop away, mama, and hope we leave him penniless."

Her mother rested her palm on her chest, her expression softening. "Ah! What an idea! But with it comes pity for we could never accomplish such a task. His money keeps on coming and coming, I dread he'd one day drown in them."

"Fear no such thing," Farah rolled her eyes, "He is already drowning in it. I hope the weight becomes so heavy, he will possess no power to arise from it."

"Come, my daughter, let's not spoil our mood with his existence. Surely there are bigger things we could discuss than his ego." Her mother clasped her forearm around Farah's and both strolled between the colourful shops filled with hectic activity and loud noise.

After visiting a few more shops, her interest was once again lost in the midst of the flowing crowd, and she felt no inclination to want it back. Boredom was now her companion. And pain. Ugh, the pain. The soles of her feet were aching, the back of her shoulders were screaming for a good massage, and, most importantly, her side was begging for its dear life. Atop it all, it was hot. So very hot that if she walked for a long ten minutes, her world would begin spinning out of control.

Releasing a tired sigh, she craned her neck back to ease off some of the tension. The moment she did, a figure leapt across a roof above her, immediately catching her attention. Her eyes widened and her breath hitched in sudden recognition.

It was him.

Altair.

He was here. She was sure of it.

Now, suddenly not so bored anymore, her frantic gaze searched for him above the roofs, in the crowd, but, with unwanted disappointment, couldn't pinpoint him anywhere. Different volumes of voices, male and female, soft and rough, loud and low, greeted her ears, and she waited in sheer anticipation for his to salute her.

It never did.

But then it didn't have to, for when she gazed sideways towards an alleyway leading to another street filled with noise, shops, and products, she spotted a silvery robe stalking towards her. Behind the shaded features, she could make out full yet scarred lips and a strong jawline.

She raised her hand and waved a _hello_ at him. Still marching towards her, he slightly inclined his head down in response.

"—Ah! This is silk is beautiful!" her mother's voice grabbed her attention, and she found herself staring at a red and golden laced silk.

"Sure, it is handsome enough," she commented, drawing her eyes back at the alleyway—which turned out empty. Her spine straightened a little, and her gaze roamed the area around her and beyond. No sign of him. Where had he gone now?

"Should we get it?" her mother once again broke her concentrated search. Before Farah could open her mouth to respond, her mother waved a hand through the air, saying, "Why the hell not, eh? I shall get two of these. No four, so each of us will have a fair share. Ah, I'm so excited!"

Her mother rushed away inside the store to pay for the silks, her two servants followed suit. Farah sighed.

"It appears your mother is to be married rather than you, woman," a deep husky yet accented voice drifted from behind her. She instantly twirled around. And there he was, leaning against a wall, arms crossed against his chest as his head slightly tilted to the side in examination of her person.

"Oh, goodie, you're here! With your taste in fashion, I suggest you take a stroll with my mother. She'd love you." Farah winked at him.

"I'd rather not put you to shame," he retorted in his ever calm voice.

Farah grinned. "You'd only be doing me a favour, really."

"Than I shall not aid you so," he let out airily, "for there is merriment witnessing you struggle if you shall choose between pink or blue silks."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you even doing here? Don't you have, like, people to kill?"

He merely shrugged at her words. "I have said before that I shall accompany you, have you already forgotten? As to your latter question, will it surprise you if I state I sent three Crusader guards into the Afterlife?"

Farah's lips parted in response, closed, then parted again but before she could utter anything, her mother flowed out of store, silks in hand. "Okay, I'm done. Come one, come on, we have a lot of things to purchase." She grabbed Farah by the forearm and lead her away before she could properly glance back at Altair. Well, at least now she knew he would be indirectly shopping with them. Her testament was proven when a shadow flew above oblivious heads towards a nearby roof. Her chest warmed at the scene, and a smile tugged at her lips.

It wasn't after a few minutes her mother was drawn to another shop. "Look at all those veils. So beautiful; let's gaze around, my dearest Farah."

She complied. Walking up to a stance with hanging silks, veils, and materials, she mildly run her fingers over their softness. They briefly reminded her of the Rafiq, and recalling his place, she acutely embraced the memory of colourful silks hanging above her and Altair's head in the narrow hallway. She remembered that brief moment of... sensational exaltation. Even now she could not quite put a label on the feeling. Why had she suddenly felt so blissful? Cherished, almost?

Sighing, she lifted one veil and lightly covered her lower face. The moment she turned sideways, the white robe of the assassin once again filled her line of sight. He stood a little far off, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. People bypassed between them.

Farah brought the veil down, plainly stared at him, brought it up once more but this time covered her entire face. When she drew it aside, she formed a shy yet daring expression, and briefly batted her lashes at him like a maiden in love. He narrowed his eyes at her act. Paying his reaction no heed, she, as another civilian passed by them, veiled her face once more, drew it away, and crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out. He shook his head at her immaturity.

Suppressing a smile, she turned her head towards her mother when she said, "They seem royal enough but I've bought you a trunk full of them. If I dare venture more, these poor servants might as well become one with the ground. Alas, let's purchase the grand things. Shall we take a look at carpets?"

Farah didn't even have to answer for her mother was already making her way through the crowd, her dress shuffling behind her. With a sigh, she followed suit.

When they spotted carpets, they walked inside the spacious store, and smiled as the carpenter let a, "Welcome, welcome," in Arabic. Her mother laced her arm around hers, and they roamed their eyes around the colourful carpets.

Farah smiled when she spotted a scarlet one, and pointed, "Hmm, I like that one. After my marriage to Edwardo, it is evident wine would be my companion, hence if I do spill it, it wouldn't require any cleaning." At her words, her mother lightly slapped her in the arm, a small smile gracing her lips. Picking up her leisure pace, Farah surged on.

In the end, they ended up purchasing two carpets, and kindly ordered the carpenter to ship them tomorrow to the given address. He nodded his head and when they were exiting his shop, they did so with his blessing. "May God bless your kind souls; come again!"

Back to the sunny streets, her mother softly hummed in what appeared to be contentment. Witnessing her mother in such a state, Farah's chest warmed and she smiled. Suddenly the glaring sun didn't appear to be a nuisance but just a happy addition to their hectic day.

"What a beautiful day," her mother released from her side, causing Farah to turn her head at her. She sighed her approval.

"I will always remember this day when you at last depart from my reach," she continued, her voice shaking slightly.

Farah frowned. "Whatever do you mean, mama?"

"Oh!" her mother nearly cried out, "When you finally marry Edwardo, it is evident he would never allow you to leave his domain. I will never see you again, my child, and I'm not issuing this with ease. It is the truth. You will— " her voice broke, and Farah suddenly came to a halt, her lips parting as she watched her mother lower her face. "You will... I will... Oh, Farah, it saddens me to acknowledge our unlucky Fates; you will leave me. Alone. With that animal. And I will leave you, too, with the other animal."

Farah's spine leisurely straightened, and her mouth parted wider.

_Your life for hundreds_, his voice suddenly echoed in her ears._ I refuse to leave loose-ends. You shall cease to exist._

Oh, if only her mother knew there was a high chance she wouldn't be seeing her_ at all_.

How had they come to this? What had they done to earn such a dark and horrible future?

Her spirit within whined, reminding her of her mission. Not the one involving Edwardo but the one where she'd fight tooth-and-nail for her freedom.

Freedom. Never had the word tasted so bittersweet, and never had it motivated her with such fervour until now. Yes, she recalled the delicious taste of it all those weeks back in the Souk, and she'd wanted only more. Would get more. Her mother's words only stoked the fires of her determination. She might have entertained the idea of gaining freedom with foolish naivety, but right now she knew there was no second guesses.

Now, she wouldn't only be warring for her freedom but her mother's as well, and, God help her, would she war for it.

The words of the assassin held no intimation over her any longer, no. Her mother's soul-tearing confession provoked her blood to heat to an almost scorching temperature, causing her heart to tighten and her chest to burn.

Leave her mother?

Abandon the woman who sacrificed a lot for her daughter?

Depart from this world with not even a proper goodbye, or not living in it the most purest and true blessed state? Did her mother deserve such a disastrous fate? Did she? Did anybody?

She had to at least try, and get them both out of this mess.

She wouldn't leave her mother alone in this world that hasn't ever been kind to her. She wouldn't leave it with ease while her mother still suffered. She wouldn't abandon her when all she did was protect her throughout her years of motherhood. Her mother deserved someone to fight for her, deserved a hero, and even if Farah would most likely fail, she had to make her realize that she wasn't alone in this.

Mother to daughter. Heart to heart; soul to soul. They were all they had.

Gently cupping her mother's face, Farah, with a bright smile, uttered, "I will never leave you, mama. Nothing can take me from your warm embrace. _Obicham te._"_ I love you_. "_Imat vyara.__ Vsichko shte bŭde nared._" _Trust me, everything will be fine._

Her mother's eyes twinkled with unshed tears and she, leaning forward, placed her lips on Farah's forehead and kissed her. "_Ya az te obicham, dŭshterya mi._" _I love you too, my daughter_.

That's all she ever needed. Her mother's undying love.

That night, Altair did not visit her, and she retreated to her bed with a heavy heart and a clouded mind buzzing with thoughts. Don't get her wrong, her determination was as fiery as before, the only bothersome thing about it was... Farah suddenly scorned the idea of parting with the assassin, and felt her heart drop to her belly.

But it must be done.

He couldn't take her soul. Not without a fight, at least.

-x-


	11. Chapter 11

**AN:**_ Thank you for all the kind and, yeah, funny words! Thank you all for following and putting this story on your favourites! And thank you viewers for making this story reach over 4000 views! You da best!_

_I saw the making of the Assassin's Creed and the maker said she got the idea for the Assassins from an actual historical event. (duh) At one point I'll mention the word Hashashin and that's the original name for the assassins that existed all those centuries back in the Middle East. So don't get all confused and be like what is that. Or I think that was just me when I first read it. Ha._

_Enjoy! :)_

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Eleven

1190, Damascus, Syria

The day had come.

The day that would display her and Edwardo's engagement to the world, had arrived.

She wanted to die. Right here and now. The days had whizzed by so fast, she couldn't even catch her breath. Nothing was working out her way. Nothing.

Her attempts at fully escaping and starting a new life failed.

Her attempts at ignoring her father at all costs had failed.

Her attempts at gaining sweet freedom and being independent had failed and earned her a death sentence in the process.

_Venture forwards, Dovaros_, she reminded herself. _Venture forwards_. The past was just that, the past. And it would stay behind. Just alike the speeding time, she would not permit it to catch up to her. She'd speed towards the future, to new possibilities. To a new life. Altair would help accomplish that. Yes, he would attempt to kill her off, but one could not kill someone who was not present.

She'd concluded to run away.

Last night's deep contemplation had at last given her an answer. How would Altair, the sole being who'd end her life, help her gain it? She'd questioned. But then the answer was obvious: through him she'd been presented the chance to step out of the walls of her domain, and through him her plan would succeed.

He'd ordered her to converse with Edwardo and draw him out to a secluded place where he'd take his life. Farah had already planned everything through.

First, she'd talk to Edwardo tonight, in their engagement party, and get to his good side. Once she had his unwavering attention, she'd then ask her father to arrange a date for them, and the reason would be, of course, so she could get to know her "future husband" better. Her father surely wouldn't disagree. Second, once she was alone with Edwardo, Altair would act upon his vow, and while he was at it, that is exact time Farah would act upon her wishes and flee.

He'd not see it coming, and that was splendid.

She'd told her mother of this spineless yet achievable plan, told her they'd escape after she returned from her "date". She left the involvement of an assassin out, and prayed everything would flow as planned.

Her mother half-heartedly agreed, still thinking Farah had gone mad. But she had agreed, and that's all that mattered. All her mother had to do was be ready. Once Farah returned, they'd escape from the back door and take the horses for a long ride. For all, it would not even cross their minds since they've never done something of this sort, and that was good. The guards wouldn't expect it. Her father wouldn't even toy with the idea. And when they start to contemplate their dragging absence, hopefully Farah and her mother would be far gone by then. Then, finally, they'd be able to live together in utter peace; away from everything and everyone. It did not concern where. Perhaps it was a good thing to choose a random land of their liking and settle.

They'd be happy.

So blissfully happy, Farah couldn't wait.

"Nervous?" Sarah's voice came from behind her. She turned slightly and smiled. "No. I mean yeah. But I'm more eager to get this over with than anything else."

Sarah smiled as she tied a silky pearl-white sash around her waist, giving her long jade and ultramarine dress a unique appearance. She wore a corset, the squeezing tightness of it provoking her average sized breasts to swell upwards and form a deep V. She felt exposed but that was the design of the dress—one Edwardo had sent her as a gift—hence she had to agree to it.

If it was given by a gentle and pure and stainless hand, she'd call it's layout beautiful. Jade and violet roses from all sizes decorated her chest then skidded down alongside her side to her waist. The lower umbrella-shaped part of her dress was created as a blossoming rose. The materials hung from different edges to create the face of the flower. And yet, wearing something Edwardo touched left her feeling disgusted. Too harsh? She had to be. They deserved nothing but her anger and hate.

"I'm sorry," she suddenly heard Sarah's gentle voice break her musings. Farah frowned, fully turning around to face her friend. "Why?"

"Your escape. I'm sorry... it was not a success. We tried everything in our hands to aid you. But..."

"Don't ever say that. You have succeeded. I made the error of returning due to my... weakness, you could say." Farah gently smiled, cupping Sarah's cheeks. Then she stilled, the smile dropping from her features. "We?" she asked, brows furrowing.

Sarah parted her lips to speak, closed them, blinked, and then parted them once more to release a sigh. "Your... mother. She asked for my help. We planned it for weeks and, finally, when the moment was right, we acted upon it. Please don't be mad," she suddenly rushed out. "We only wanted the best for you, honest. Your mother loves you very much. She couldn't live another day with you suffering under the abusive hand of your father. Don't blame her for her motherly love. Please."

This time, Farah opened her mouth in shock, blinked rapidly, and croaked out," I-I... am not. I'm not mad." She swept her suddenly sweaty palms against her dress while feeling her stomach tighten and curl in on its self.

Her mother had tried to help without consulting Farah of the plan? Why would she do such a thing?

I mean, yes, she thought. Her mother loved her, but they always did things together. The other party was at all times aware of the other one's plan. It was their mother-daughter thing, one would not do something without saying it first. It was essential to their relationship. They were all that they had. Hence why would her mother aid Farah and not herself?

Then another thought struck her, paralyzing her in her state.

She had abandoned her mother. If the assassin had not forced her to return, she'd have left her mother behind.

She was _such_ a hypocrite. How could she? Where was her brain at that time? Her shame?

"Sarah could you please open the window?" she croaked out, finding it difficult to breathe. The corset hugged her figure with determination, further squeezing her lungs. Sarah obeyed and opened the window, allowing fresh air to whisk inside.

Farah inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, and tried to ease her thoughts.

She'd do her right this time. She'd take them out of this hell with her own bare hands. _Oh, Lord, please aid me._ She'd save her mother, not leave her behind.

Venture forwards, she reminded herself.

"Lady Farah, are you well?" Sarah asked in worry.

Farah strolled up to her bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. She nodded, rubbing her stomach to ease the nausea from ruling over her calming state. She breathed in more of the fresh air.

"Can you please get me water?" she asked Sarah.

"Of course, milady."

As Sarah shuffled away to get her water, Farah stared out her window and to the sunset. Despite her trembling state, a lazy smile slowly graced her lips. The sky was painted with golden, pink, and blue rays.

Where was he? she vaguely thought. What was he doing?

Would he watch over her at the party?

"Here," Sarah outstretched a cup of water, immediately breaking her out of her musings. Farah looked at her and then slowly took hold of the water.

She smiled. "Thanks."

"Anytime, milady." Sarah smiled back, her fingers going to Farah's hair and fixing it. Her long strands were tamed into a delicate bun on her head, some of them curling down till they grazed the skin of her shoulders. Farah sighed, closing her heavy lids.

She had to get herself together. Had to be strong.

Yes, chin up and back straight.

From outside, echoing from the garden below, was the symphony of chuckles and chatter of the present guests. The clinking of glass filled with red whine blended well with the slow music playing in the background as entertainment.

She had to wait in her room until it was time to descend, and who would accompany her? Why, yes, the one and annoyingly only Bastardo.

After a few torturous minutes of listening to the sounds emerging from outside, a knock sounded at her door. She jolted in sudden awareness. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

It was time.

She bit down on her lower lip, her pupils going wild with anxiety. Her hands grabbed at the bed-sheets and tightly fisted them, causing even her knuckles to leach out of colour.

Wait, why was she even nervous? It wasn't like their plan(s) would succeed. She would be the one victorious. Because Altair said so. But still, facing Edwardo's repulsive body and character would unnerve her. The last time she was in his presence, he sent heated dirty looks, caressing his neck while pointing a finger at her—as if attempting to feel her by feeling himself—and had sloppily licked his fat oily lips. She'd nearly vomited at the sight, would vomit right now if she didn't stop thinking about it.

"In a minute," replied Sarah, aiding Farah to her feet. Her dress was so wide, she feared it'd swallow her whole. A small part of her wished it actually would.

Chin up. Back straight. She repeated in her head.

With determination, Farah strode to the door in elegance, her dress swishing from side to side, and watched Sarah as she clicked open the wooden barrier.

Inch by fat inch, Edwardo's belly revealed itself. Oh, wait, that was his face.

"Lady F_aa_-rrr-_ah_," he clacked his tongue, bowing slightly. _Oh m__**yyy**__ Go__**ddd**_.

She pursed her lips to stop her grimace from forming. Instead she cleared her throat. "Sir Bastar— uh, Edwardo," she swished her dress aside and gently bowed, hoping he didn't hear the nickname she gave him slip out.

He rubbed his belly instead of chin as he examined her in evident interest. His large—like _really_ large—eyes raked up and down her person, and she swore his pupils dilated. This time she allowed the grimace to form.

Then, he raised up his arm, and waited for her to rest hers between his inner arm. And she did, before retreating it at least five times.

His meaty muscles squashed her delicate fingers with their fat, and to make it more painful, he tightened his hold—flexing his inner muscles as he did so. Perhaps he feared she'd bolt.

Farah cast Sarah an expression of weeping, and her friend pouted in helplessness.

"Good luck," her friend mouth.

"Thanks," she mouthed back. With a powerful jerk, Edwardo began walking through the beautifully candle-lit hallway, and nearly dragged her in the process. After a few strides, they turned to a corner and to the wide staircase, and there awaited many unknown faces of the guests. Eyes rose to the top of the stairs. When Farah's breath hitched in her throat, they released cheers, and the space was filled with applause.

In the midst of this chaos, her mind drifted away and visioned a white-cloaked male, his robes fluttering in the soft breeze that swept past the land, and unknowingly witnessed her heart swell in longing.

Altair. Please be here.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

Altair resided on the rooftop, his sharp eyes scanning the scenery below. Bodies of both male and female filled the garden space, and chatters and rich laughter resounded around them. All in all, the luxuries image failed to tempt him into adoration and worldly-lust.

But, even with the sixty people in his current view, he did not lose sight of his target. She darted from one side of the garden to the other, once in a while glancing behind to see if anyone was following, and only halting to catch her breath and soothe her injured side.

Now, she stood next to a small but long table as her chest heaved in and out, the corset around her bodice too tight for her own good. Snapping open her fan, she started moving again, disappearing into the crowd. She moved with such casualty, the guests failed to notice who exactly passed by them, but to Altair, even if he _did_ lose sight of her, he'd find her just as fast. How? Simple. He'd just have to look at a figure walking as if to escape, almost attempting to hide rather than socialize in her casual yet clumsy manner.

Darkness had long dawned, and many torches lit the garden with their orange fire, providing much light to mistake the evening for morning. Bright dots of millions of stars twinkled above, cornering the silvery moon, and a sweet yet cold breeze blew across the area time to time.

Altair inhaled deeply, then gradually exhaled.

The soft music going on in the background suddenly whined to a stop, and the instruments ceased their tunes.

"And now," said a booming voice, catching everyone's attention and silencing them in the process. Heads simultaneously turned towards the fountain. "The dance of the Lovebirds begins. Everybody, choose your partner and take your designed places; the fun is about to start!"

Excitement suddenly saturated the atmosphere—everyone smiling and eager—and guests started to shuffle around the place, quickly grabbing their partners and taking their positions while Altair still contained his plain expression. But only one person seemed unhappy, and it was the one and only Lady Farah.

She placed her hands on her waist and loudly exhaled, rolling her eyes. His lips twitched. With everyone now in order, it was quite easy for Edwardo to spot her. At his face, Altair's blood abruptly boiled. He grit his teeth as he worked his jaw.

_That man..._

He'd die by his hands. For sure. Altair would show him what it'd feel like to be in pain. True pain. That, he vowed.

But now, seeing him take the female into his arms, the ache to slaughter him increased tenfold, provoking a shudder to travel up his spine. He could do it, right here and now. He could take his life.

Why was he not?

Patience, Altair. He reminded himself. The last time he acted carelessly nearly cost him his life. And pride. Never again, he said. Never again would he display such weakness to his brethren. If it means tolerating de Pablo touch the female like that, he'd choose to take a seat and witness it until morning dawned to night.

He focused on the figure that stood before Edwardo in the row of people with only a few feet of space between the two bodies.

After a beat, the music slowly regained beat, but this time the violin joined the lively tunes, causing a playful melody to greet the ears of the guests. It encouraged smiles from their faces. With a bow and a swish of their skirts, the men and women clashed together, at last closing the few feet of distance between for good.

Edwardo literally shoved the female against his fat body, and his belly wiggled due to the impact with Farah's smaller figure. She winced, her expression then deepening into one of pain.

That vile bastard, did he not realize his grip on her was squeezing the hell out of her bruised side?

The female tried to distance herself or, at the very least, balance her weight properly. The music took on a faster rhythm, causing the dancers to hop around the place with their partners. Laughter erupted, and they twirled. Stopped. Clapped twice. And then continued circling around the garden.

Farah had difficulty keeping up with Edwardo's hasty and jerky moves, much less the dance, and appeared out of complete breath. Exhaustion lined her face. He grit his teeth.

The dancers let go of each other, females twirled in place, and the males changed partners, grabbing onto someone new. The dance continued.

Altair watched Farah, and spotted her with another man. Although he was thinner than Edwardo, he was still unaware of her injury and demanded more than she could offer. The female forced out a smile, her expression still pained.

Then, in the midst of it all, an idea bloomed in his mind. At that thought, he cocked his head to the side and formed a short yet satisfied nod. Making up his mind, he jumped down the roof, using the windowpanes as leverage. Landing with skilled grace, he effortlessly straightened, and eyed the dancers from behind one of the many columns in the spacious garden. His hawk eyes scanned the area for the female's figure. After a few look-outs, he found her in the far corner, twirling.

With her as his only target, Altair calmly made his way through the crowd of dancing bodies and colourful dresses. Keeping his head low, he avoided all contact with the dancers.

They stopped. Clapped twice. And on they went again. As they were too captivated with the dance, whoever spotted him didn't dwell much on his appearance. Altair walked over to where the female was dancing and, when the time came to exchange partners, he shamelessly stole her from her next dancer in her twirling state.

The force of his pull caused Farah's body to slam against his, provoking a sharp gasp to escape her lips.

"Hey!" he thought he heard her partner let out as Altair ventured them away from him. Farah struggled in his arms to right herself and also rip free from his hold.

"Keep your calm, it is only I," he reassured.

Her head flew up, her big brown eyes clashing with his golden ones. Then, a bright smile of utter relief broke free from her lips, and she abruptly hugged him close. Air escaped his lungs at her tight embrace.

"You do not know how relieved I feel right now." She sighed out loudly. Altair waited for her to release him. Slowly, almost gently, she let go of him, and before he could think she was departing, she placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in his palm.

Staring down at her as she up at him, Altair slightly leaned down, snaked his arm around her waist, and gently brought her figure closer and up, lifting the weight off of her injured side from her feet. The moment her body pressed against his, breath escaped her plump lips, and their chins slightly kissed each other. The act of their bodies meshing together made the hand on his shoulder travel further back until his shoulder blade, which encouraged Altair to wrap his fingers around her delicate ones.

With a leisure pace, they began joining the row of dancers. The female exhaled. "Thank you."

He briefly inclined his head down in response. "Have you made a plan?" he then asked.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. "Yes. I talked to Edwardo about wishing to dine with him so we could get to learn more of each other. He eagerly agreed. The pleasant—well, according to our plan—part was where he wanted it to be only the two of us. You could say I eagerly agreed." She laughed weakly, her eyes opening. "It is after tomorrow. Our date, I mean."

Altair nodded. "I'm pleased." _That I'll be able to kill him soon_, he silently added.

Farah was quiet for a long while, then, "Me too," she murmured. "Me too."

He supported her weight with his own, and when it came to changing partners, he effortlessly dodged them out of the way.

That seemed to have delighted her because she laughed, looking up at Altair. "Nice," she praised. Their leisure pace might've helped gain back her stamina because when she stepped back, he helped her twirl, but kept his hand close to her side. Then, when it came to clapping, he had to release her completely.

The lines of tension eased on her forehead, and he found himself staring at person really enjoying the given moment. "Come on, dance with me," she said with a side-smile.

He arched his brow. "Were you just not dying of fatigue?"

She shrugged, coming back to his arms. "With your aid, I seem to be gaining back my lost energy."

He softly scoffed.

Arm to arm, chest to chest, toe to toe, they danced around the garden. Although Altair refused to partake in this foolish act of clapping and twirling, he aided her hop around, gently lifted her by the waist, and brought her figure back to his when the act ended. With him, she seemed to be truly smiling. Even going to the extend of laughing. And he found that he liked it. A great measure.

This is the least he could give before taking her life.

At that thought, his pleased attitude immediately disappeared. The gleam in his golden eyes burned out. He faltered.

The female smiled wide, revealing pearl-white teeth. Her eyes twinkled, the edges adoringly crinkling, and her shaped brow lifted in merriment. She threw her head, released a bubbly laugh, and closed her eyes, appearing to be relishing in the moment.

Space and time ceased to exist at this exact moment; it was only her. He watched as her soft strands bounced up and down, slapping her neck and cheeks, watched as she danced to the music in his arms, and watched still as she stepped back, raised his hand, and turned elegantly.

Kill her? Truly take this joyous soul, this _Farah_, away from this world? Snatch her away from her mother, the sole woman Farah seemed to love dearly? Destroy the females chance at family and freedom? Even if Farah's death was essential to the safety of the Assassins—his brethren—what _right_ did he actually _have_?

That last thought caused him to stop all together, and he was snapped out of the moment of weakness. The female nearly tripped.

Altair stared at her dumbfounded and, once she righted herself, she stared up at him with the same expression.

How could he even think that? Emotions made a man weak, caused him to question his motives. Wait, did he actually just think emotions? No. Never. Not him. Just because of some moment, he was willing to sacrifice the lives of his brethren? What has gotten into him?

He _would_ kill her—even if it felt as though everything in this world rotted away right after that statement—he would see it through.

Suddenly sick at the thought, he abruptly pulled away. He had gotten the required information. He had to leave.

"Is everything alright?" the female asked, frowning in confusion. He didn't bother answering her as he plainly pushed her towards a new approaching partner. The dancing man happily embraced Farah close, causing Altair to slightly narrow his eyes. Farah frantically gazed at him, the unasked question still hanging from her parted lips. No. No more dwelling. Mind set on escaping, he made his way through the crowd, and ignored the feeling of a person watching him, almost burning a hole in his back.

Altair had left her before she could say anything, but that was for the best.

Once he got to a safe secluded place, away from all eyes, only then did he dare to glance back.

As if she was the only one in the garden, his searching eyes found her in a second. Her partner was careless, tugging her back and forth, left and right, and making fatigue once again attack her. She no longer smiled, no long appeared at ease. Her laughter was gone, her amusement as dead as his trained emotions. Farah instead looked pained and restless and, if he wasn't mistaken, her lower lip was quivering. Her brows creased in the middle as if to stop the sudden urge to... cry?

He didn't know if the guy pulled her too hard or if she suddenly could not hold herself up, the only think he knew was her standing one moment, then falling the next.

His muscles jerked in response, and nearly provoked him to walk back to her.

Her partner stopped dancing and hastily knelt down. Then, everyone at some point stopped dancing, their eyes on Farah.

"Help!" her partner shouted. "Lady Farah hurt herself!"

The music instantly ceased playing, and panicked murmured soon took its place. People began crowding her, blocking Altair's view of her person. More murmurs rang out, and he spotted Edwardo push his way through the mass of bodies, his belly bouncing up and down.

After a while—his muscles still stiff—the people began to move away, making way for her. At last he caught sight of her face.

"I'm good. It's alright, I just tripped. That's what it feels like to wear a dress, gentlemen." Farah's weak voice rang out, breaking the tense silence. At her words, people laughed, and tension waned away. Thinking she is well, some of the guests went back to talking with each other. But, as if her voice was some key to his body, her gentle tone allowed his knotted muscles to gradually unlock and relax.

The music started to play again, and the people scattered around the garden once more and started enjoying their evening, doing whatever they were before the accident occurred. Even Altair as he started walking away from her.

Tonight has been... eventful, but he wouldn't dare allow it to stray him from the importance of his mission.

He would be the assassin he was meant to be.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

Emerald eyes watched the two figures in the garden, her heart leaping in her chest at the scenery.

Her daughter was happy. She was laughing, for God's sake! She appeared relaxed and content, as though she was not marred and was experiencing the time of her life, and it was all due to that man cloaked in white attire. He was a foreigner, that much she knew. He was not an invited guest.

So who was he, the sole man, being, who could raise Farah's mood from gloomy to utter happiness in a split second? It seemed he just had to appear before her and that would be enough for Farah to genuinely smile.

In the manner she laid her head on his shoulder, the way he held her slightly off the ground due to her injury, and the way he helped her dance, made her laugh, protected her as he took her away from other suited dancers, clearly displayed how deeply they cared for each other.

When did they meet? How had this relationship came to be?

Her daughter told her everything, so why not this, the one thing sprouting such gladness in her?

Lady Dominica Dovaros was confused more than ever. Why did her daughter hide such an important person from her?

But no matter the reason(s), she began to smile broadly at the way her Farah danced away. All she wanted for her sweetheart was such a blessing: for her to receive love and affection from someone other than her mama.

Wetness skidded down her cheeks, dangling at the edge of her jaw. Only when a few drops landed on her hand, she realized she was crying. Tears of joy, gratitude, and a little bit of grief for her offspring, wet her cheeks.

Thank you, O Great One! Thank You so much!

She'd been praying for such a beautiful gift to occur, and occur it had. A burst of laughter escaped her lips, causing her fingertips to rest on her lips.

Her daughter was at last happy; she was blessed. Her daughter had found someone special; she was deeply cared for. There was a chance for her. A bright future awaited her. To hell with her engagement to Edwardo; once they talked this through, she could help her escape like last time. Her daughter was chosen to one of the happy ones, her daughter was— pushed... away?

Dominica instantly straightened, watching as Farah stumbled back and was grabbed by another dancing partner. Her eyes immediately tailed after the man in the white, trying hard not to lose him in the moving crowd.

He disappeared. Vanished as though he'd never existed. Was she imagining it? Was her brain displaying her what she yearned for her whole life? What was the meaning of this?

Sparing her daughter a glance, Dominica grabbed her flowing skirts and started emerging out of the shadowed place she hid behind. Where was he? Where did he— there he is!

Spotting him walk towards a dark corner, away from the garden and its light, she hastily followed after him. She had to speak to him, had to convince him to save Farah from this hell. He would do that, wouldn't he? Seeing how he treated her treasure before abruptly pushing her away, he would at the very least care, wouldn't he?

Just when he was about to jump up the wall, she let out a, "Wait! Wait, wait, wait!"

Others would not see nor hear them, for they were tuned out due to the music and sounds coming from the garden. They were away from prying eyes.

At her voice, he instantly whipped around, unsheathing a blade from an armoury on his wrist.

Her breath suddenly hitched, and she froze. Eyes widening and lips parting, her wild pupils slowly rose to meet the hooded features of the man.

Assassin.

She gasped loudly. Her daughter was associated with an assassin.

Emerald pools still wide, she stared at the killer—who was calmly staring back at her—and felt her pulse quicken.

Is this why her daughter kept her love for a murderer a secret, because she feared permission will be denied for her? Because Assassins were her father's greatest enemy? How had she even known of that fact when their identity was kept a secret?

"You know who I am, don't you." She stated rather than asked.

He stood in silence. Then, "Yes," he calmly issued.

"You know my daughter."

"Too well for my liking, I fear."

She frowned. "I know who you are."

He stood unmoving, the atmosphere around them thickening. "Is that so?"

She straightened her spine, gaining composure. She couldn't comprehend how her daughter could touch this lethal man, laugh and hold him while she was trembling at the mere dangerous sight of him. He radiated a compelling aura, one of confidence and determination that'd annihilate anything and anyone who dare crossed him.

What was wrong with her daughter?

Like she was the one to judge. Wasn't she the one with an abusive husband?

"My husband knows of you, thus I know of you," she explained. "But tell me one thing,_ Hashashin_, do you love my daughter?"

"Don't be absurd." He answered without a hint of hesitation. If she wasn't mistaken, there was a lilt of ridicule in his response.

Dominica's lips parted at his words. The way they danced, held each other, and talked... did she misunderstand? Having received no love from her own husband, perhaps her eyes have fooled her? But Farah appeared so blissful, so... carefree. Did that really mean _nothing_?

Despite it all, she wanted that for her daughter. Wanted her to be carefree. It didn't matter if the man was a murderer. If he could make her that happy, then he cared. Caring meant he possessed a heart, and having a heart meant... well, everything.

"Who are you to her?" she questioned. "How do you know my daughter?"

"The answers to those questions do not concern you."

A speck of anger ignited in her chest. "She's my daughter, that means the answers concern me more than they do anybody else."

"You still will not receive them." With that, he turned on his heels and began to walk away. She knew she was helpless to stop him. But she would not back down. Somehow, Dominica knew the chance of seeing and talking to this assassin, this man, was one in a million.

"Wait!" she called out again.

He gradually came to a halt, not bothering to turn around this time. That just indicated how weak she was, how he could handle her even with his back turned.

She shook the insecure thoughts away and focused on the main goal: Farah's safety. This man could provide it, she was sure of it.

"I don't know what you are planning," she started, taking a deep breath. "Whatever it is, keep my daughter safe. Please," hot tears blurred her eyes. "I beg of you. She... She's my only child, my baby, and she has not experienced joy in such a long time. I love her with all my heart and if anything... anything happens to her, I will backfire. Knowing of your nature, if you shall cause her harm, I will—if alive—hunt you down and like a lion, rip every limb from your body. If I'm not alive, then I shall curse you from my grave."

Dominica didn't mean to turn the conversation into one of threatening, but she could not help it—Farah meant everything to her.

The man stood in silence, his head slightly bowed down.

"Don't hurt her, assassin. Please, guard my baby; she's an innocent."

"Is that all?" he lowly muttered.

Her chin trembled. Slowly—as though defeated—she bowed her head and gazed down at the ground.

There was a brief disturbance in the air, causing the hairs on her nape to prickle. She glanced up, and realized she was alone. The assassin had left.

A breeze, stronger than the last, blew against her figure, causing her skirts to flutter and her black strands to brush her neck. She glanced up at the dark sky, watching the stars and moon illuminate this corrupt world with pure light. With a bitter chuckle, Dominica allowed the burning tears to at last fall.

Her knees gave out before her own figure, and she collapsed on the ground. Covering her bruised face with her hands, she wept. Oh, how she wept.

Her shoulders shook, her chest heaved, her throat tightened, and her insides scorched and burned.

She sobbed out into the night, and released an anguished scream into her hands. Her shouts of loss and misery mingled with the playful music playing in the background.

Dominica wept for her life, her doom, but most of all, she wept for Farah.

_My Farah_, she cried out. _My sweetheart. My treasure_.

Resting her heavy head on her lap, she sobbed harder and louder. In her defeated state, two words echoed in her head, the two lone words she could only hope to receive.

_Forgive me_, she prayed.

"F-F-Forg-g-give m-me," she wailed out into her lap. "Fogiv-v-ve m-e-e... F-Fo-o-rgive me... Forgive me, my Farah..."

-x-


	12. Chapter 12

What We Can't Have

_Order._

Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.

So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to _try_?

How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going _according_ to _the_ plan?

The things that are meant to take place _will_ take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be _broken_?

Chapter Twelve

_Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine_

_Nothing is true; everything is permitted_

1190, Damascus, Syria

Farah paced her room from one corner to the other, and couldn't shake off the heavy sensation of great failure impending down on them. It was upon her. She knew it.

"Oh, God," she moaned, grabbing her head. "Help me, help me, help me. Please give me the strength. I can't. Oh, God. I can't. Wait, I can. I have to. Promised mama, promised to get us out of this mess. Yes, I promised... I promised... promised..." her mumbles to herself dragged on until there was a knock on the door. Her head jerked up. Sarah entered, and wore a grim expression.

That only meant one thing: Edwardo was here.

The day to finally put Edwardo's existence to an end had come. Today, she was going on a date with him. In the evening, her and her mother would escape. Tomorrow, it'd be a whole new life.

She released a groan of anxiety. A part of her didn't even believe this was truly, actually, really happening. But it was, no matter her shock at the bold words. Today she'd betray the assassin. Well, not betray because she'd live up to her promise. What she meant was flee before he could turn his dagger to her.

Since Altair did not make an appearance after the engagement party―like, at all―she hoped he wouldn't be too tardy to the Let's-Kill-Edwardo party. He wouldn't be, anyways. He was an assassin. But she safely wrapped the dagger he gave her around her mid-thigh. Just in case Edwardo attempted to violate her.

So, dagger? Check.

Warning her mother beforehand? Check.

Her confidence? Getting there.

Speaking of her mother, she was acting really... down. It was after the engagement party where her sullen mood began to accompany her every day. She would speak less, give Farah loving and yet almost... pitying looks before walking away. Perhaps it was the stress of their escape that was making her act so. They'd have plenty of time tomorrow, after tomorrow, and all those days to come to talk everything over.

Shaking the thoughts off, Farah straightened and, tilting her chin up, she allowed a grin to lift her lips. "Shall we?" she said to Sarah, and, giving the female a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek, walked out of the room, down the staircase, and out the doors to the carriage with one stallion waiting outside.

When she spotted Edwardo's fat figure, her grin faltered and the sensation of a disastrous calamity impending was thrust heavy on her shoulders. Farah almost whimpered.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

Altair strode the streets of Damascus, lost in his thoughts and yet aware of the actions revolving around him.

He had barely rested these previous nights, and he didn't know if it was because the day to finally send de Pablo to the Afterlife had arrived, or because of Farah's mother's words.

_Take care of her. Protect her._

_Do you love my daughter?_

Altair darkly chuckled at the latter―even if the thought emerged from thin air―and shook his head. He was a man of no emotions and for the woman to ask if he felt the strongest emotion of all for her _daughter_? That was rhetorical.

Inwardly growling, he pushed people out of his way, earning a few glares and mutters, and, tilting his head up at the towering sandy-coloured buildings, he bolted into action and jumped to the top using the wooden planks sticking out.

Before he actually reached the summit, he eyed an open window, prepared his legs, and jumped inside.

He rolled over and to his feet and bolted into action once more, ignoring the family dining together at a table and the gasp of the females. Before they could voice their protests, he sped towards another open window across the room, and jumped out head-first.

Spreading his arms forth, he latched onto the first wooden plank he spotted sticking out of the building and, using the momentum by swinging his body, he jumped up against the wall. Using the rocky crevices as an advantage by digging the tips of his fingers in, he made his way up to the roof.

Once he reached the surface, with his Eagle Vision now activated, he surveyed the city below him, spread wide and full of life. People walked across the land, stopping before markets, scolding their naughty children, or fixing their clothes before striding again.

He watched them for a long time, too long for his own good, and vaguely thought what drove them every day to rise from the comfort of their beds. He was a man on a mission, that was evident. What were they? His goal in life was to see through that people had free will, that they were safe from the corrupt leaders and their ideas. But did they deserve it?

At that thought, Altair shook his head. It didn't matter if they deserved it or not, what mattered was that it was right. Because of the Brotherhood these people got a chance at freedom in all its senses.

The image of Farah brightly smiling briefly crossed his mind, causing him to pause in his musings. Altair straightened, leaning one shoulder against the roof's solid wall. Behind the stone barrier, he examined the people, but from within, he thought deeply.

Kill off Farah... Why did it always come down to her in the end?

Whatever he decided, his mind seemed to, at all times, reassure she existed, that she was there and she mattered. These previous nights of tossing and turning, staring up at the skies for an answer, and briefly closing his eyes for solitude but ending up with Farah's face stuck on his mind, provoked his judgements to slightly waver.

Instead of reacting to her living in the hostile manner that he should've, surprisingly, Altair was calm and collected, and the answer to all his unsure conclusions serenely sprung free, branding him with one conclusion.

The Assassins abided by three very essential tenets; first was to stay their blade from the flesh of an innocent, second was to hide in plain sight, and the third was to never compromise the Brotherhood.

Although Farah was an innocent, she was far from being excused. She knew of him, his name, knew of Rafiq Kadar, and knew of their drive: to kill nefarious leaders. Her being aware of these even diminutive information lead him to embrace the third tenet: to never compromise the Brotherhood.

She might do it indirectly, out of naivety, but the result would still be the same. The Brotherhood would pay the price. And he thought he couldn't risk that, a part of him still rebuffed the upcoming conclusion, but Altair was an assassin who believed in free will. He abided by the rules of the Creed solely for the reason of liberty in ones self and mankind. And he did acknowledge the manner in which he cornered the female into agreeing with him was counted unfair to her. The selfish side of him didn't dare care, but the other part of him did. Fairly enough. These brief days he'd spent with the female encouraged him to come to this very clear conclusion.

Pardon the third tenet for the first. He was no naïve fool, but the free will was all hers to possess from now on.

He wouldn't kill Farah. He couldn't. She was everywhere, mostly on his mind, and like a deadly virus, she was spreading, conquering and destroying his way of thinking.

Perhaps if he permitted her to live, these irritable feelings of guilt would at last abandon him. It is not as though the assassin cared if she lived or died, it was just the idea of her losing a life she never truly enjoyed that caused him to double think his hasty decisions.

He drew a blade out of his waist armoury, and smoothly skid his finger over the sharp steel, earning a swift_ shink_. Did she still possess the blade he gave her as a sample of his trust? At that thought, his mood slightly darkened. She better not lose it.

Despite it all, his lips twitched at the memory of her awing upon the dagger when he first handed it to her, releasing her numerous 'oohs' and 'aahs'. She'd appeared like a child looking at her favourite candy.

The thought of her presenting such a reaction to one of his blades caused something to twitch in his chest. He abruptly shook the feeling off, knowing his mind was simply jesting.

Altair stood in silence for a long while, watching the sun gradually lower itself towards the ground. At the end of the day, even great creations such as this burning star seemed to fall. After an hour or so, it would set. That only meant it was time.

Turning away from the red sun, Altair walked forth in his charismatic manner to a nearer building. Putting strength to his feet and limbs, he slightly crouched, and then jumped across the two roofs, feeling the air slap against his form before he landed on the solid surface.

And like that, he made his way to Farah's residence, jumping and leaping below the vast sky. But he knew to others he was just a brief shadow passing by.

-x-

Altair Ibn La-Ahad watched as Farah stepped inside Edwardo's carriage, watched as the Templar smirked wickedly at his guards, watched still as Farah's mother cried silently at the doorway, and felt his muscles flex when the carriage at last began to move. Exhaling deeply, Altair bolted into action, once again jumping across uneven surfaces.

Keeping to the shadows, he stalked the moving carriage above ground and, after a good thirty minutes, when it passed by the town, the Souk, the great Mosque and ventured still towards the much richer district, he growled low.

The circling wheels came to a sudden halt in front of a tall building that was quite at a distance from the others. He spotted Edwardo emerge from the carriage and lead Farah into the square shaped building. Right at the centre of the square was a garden with a table in the middle.

He climbed higher and positioned himself right atop them, his shaded gaze moving with each of their strides.

De Pablo had Farah's hand clasped within his broader one, and guided her to the table in the centre. He skidded her chair back, helped her sit, and, pleased, walked over to his side of the table and sat down.

While the female sat on a chair cushioned with velvet, the Templar sat on what appeared to be a sofa draped in velvet. But, of course, to him it was considered a sole chair.

He watched as Farah smiled awkwardly at Edwardo, most probably waiting for his head to fall on the silver platter. When it didn't, she began forming confused expressions, and her gaze searched the building, balconies and windows, that enveloped them from all sides. She saw him not.

Altair was hidden, hence no one would pinpoint him if he didn't will them to. But, first and foremost, he'd strike down the four Crusader guards with him. This time, he was sure it was only four. He surveyed the entire place with his Eagle Vision―the female the only one standing out―and spotted only four red auras.

There was obviously something peculiar by the less number of guards, but he put the thought to rest for now. That did not mean he was being careless and ignorant when his instincts screamed otherwise. His senses were high in alert and if anything occurred, he was more than ready to take care of it.

"What are you looking at, sweetheart?" Edwardo suddenly asked the female.

Farah's gaze snapped at him and she urged a smile. "The architecture, of course. Did you design it?"

De Pablo warmly chuckled, his fat chin wiggling, "No. No, I surely did not. But I own it nonetheless."

Farah arched a brow. "Oh?"

Altair was surprised at how well she kept her cool. He was pleased. By now, he would've struck down Edwardo, but there was something that did not bode well. There was a disturbance in the air. The Templar was up to something.

He had no knowledge of what it was yet, but he'd do well to break down his forces. And that meant death to his guards.

Without a second's squander, Altair sprung to action and, zeroing in on one of the red auras positioned right below him, he effortlessly leapt down on the balcony. Whipping his Hidden Blade out, he landed behind him and before he could react, Altair sprung up and pierced the metal into his spine, tearing muscle and hitting bone. With his gloved hand, he enclosed the guard's mouth until his stifled groans of pain eased to silence.

In such a sunny day, a body had just fallen and the others did not even realize that. Sometimes he wondered if they were even trained.

Altair abruptly jumped to the lowest balcony below, and hid behind one of the columns. He was now in level with the green garden, hence if the female searched for him, she'd spot him within range―if he allowed that.

His breathing even and calculated, he turned around and examined the two guards positioned at the entrance of the enclosed building. The design of the place was for luxuries purposes, that he knew. It was crafted in European style, the ceilings high and golden and the walls draped in jade wallpapers with paintings of angels and men decorating the sides.

A long hallway stretched all the way to the exit, and to both his sides towered ceramic designed columns that had long white curtains hanging atop them. They fluttered and rose around the space due to the wind blowing in from the exit, and enveloped his body in a silky embrace. He could use them to his advantage.

Stealthily withdrawing two blades from his waist armoury, Altair calmly approached the two guards. They were chatting and snickering, oblivious to the fact that an assassin roamed in the building.

One of them casually craned his neck to the side, but by doing so, he spotted Altair's cloaked form. Just as he immediately straightened in alarm, a milky curtain rose before Altair's figure, and as it gradually lowered, he knew the guard spotted nothing but thin air.

His friend turned to him and said, "Woah, you alright, pal? You appear as though you saw Death."

The first guard snapped out of his reverie, and glanced at his friend. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," the second guard muttered, rolling his eyes.

Casting the spot one more glance, the guard turned away and focused forth. A mistake, even for a low soldier. One should always trust his instincts.

Paying no heed to the soldier's error, he rose his blades high and double-whipped them through the stretching space, sending the sharp points whizzing straight past the white curtains, not even tearing one edge in the process, and aiming the two guards in the back―right where their hearts beat.

They were laughing and conversing together and now they'd die together. He strode towards them in a serene manner, snatched the blades out of their bodies, wiped them clean on their Crusader attires, and walked away.

He spotted the last red aura quite easily with him slacking off on a high balcony right across the table. Making his way to the last guard, he approached him, kicked him behind the knees, causing him to instantly crumble down, and sent him fully to the ground by jabbing him between the area where neck met shoulder with his elbow. He collapsed down onto his knees, and before he could utter a word, Altair grabbed his head and cracked his neck, dislocating the bones.

His body slumped down on the balcony's tiled floor, and the faint cry of an eagle resounded across the skies.

Altair straightened. This was too easy for his own liking.

Frowning at the thought, he strode away from the body and casually padded down the wide stairs as though he was in his own house. He might as well have whistled. His insides churning with anticipation, he trod forth and to his last target―Edwardo de Pablo.

His target was currently feeding Farah a well cooked meal, and had moved his chair (sofa) closer to hers so he could put the food in her mouth. The red flaming sun was setting and the assassin knew it was the time to act. He had waited for far too long. Tonight, Edwardo's head would roll.

The assassin stood behind a sienna coloured wall, watching the two as they ate away their meal. Say, if he were to stride out now, the female would have a direct view of him. She only had to lift her eyes and look past Edwardo's figure.

Just when Altair took a step forward, the Templar's words caused them to cease their determined marching and gave him a pause.

"Why now?" the Templar questioned.

Farah glanced up from her meal, silver fork and knife in hand. "Pardon?"

Edwardo chuckled darkly, scratching his triple chin. "After so many months of disagreement, you suddenly concluded to lower your sword?"

Farah straightened, slowly putting down her fork and knife. "You do know how _persuasive_ my father can get, sir Edwardo. I simply decided to give this... this... yeah, a chance."

"Is that so?" He arched a thick black brow.

"Yes, that is so."

Edwardo suddenly stood up, his round belly bumping against the table and sending it skidding to the side, and caused the glasses of wine to spill. Farah abruptly straightened, and attempted to rise as well. Edwardo, with a harsh push on her shoulder, sent Farah sitting flat back on her chair.

She looked up at him with wide brown eyes. "What a-are y―"

"Shh, Far-_ah_." Placing three fat fingers on her shoulder, Edwardo slowly began to circle around her while rubbing his belly at the same time. Altair narrowed his eyes, his jaw set firmly. What was this pig planning? Since his arrival, there was something amiss, perhaps it would finally reveal itself?

"You are repulsed by me, Lady Farah, and I would like to know why. I'm rich, good featured, hence what more could you dare ask for?" Perhaps he was also blind?

Farah's back was as straight as a stick, her chest deeply yet slowly heaving in and out. She didn't answer his question.

"But nevertheless, I know _why_ you've come here."

Altair straightened, his lashes fusing. He couldn't know...

"Why you got me alone..." the Templar continued.

Farah gulped, her eyes focused ahead rather than on Edwardo. Altair knew she panicked from within and it was just a matter of time before she fully lost it. As to not permit that, Altair, when Edwardo turned his back to him, emerged from the shadows that embraced him, and his cloaked form was there for her eyes to see.

He didn't know it to be possible, but Farah straightened even further, her eyes widened another fraction, and a breath of relief escaped her lips. Her shoulders sagged in utter gladness. Before Edwardo could face him, Altair retreated, silently indicating to Farah to have more patience.

As he examined them further, Edwardo immediately halted at Farah's side. "You have come here to talk me out of this engagement, yes?"

"What?" Farah glanced up at him in surprise, and Altair gradually eased down. "I don't understand what you are―"

"Oh, please, darling! Spare me the inane excuses, they don't fit you."

"Edwardo, I―"

"No!" He suddenly roared, making her yelp in her seat. "You will not reject me! You _shall_ not! You're mine! Mine! MINE!" He brutally grabbed Farah by the shoulders and forced her to her feet. She did so by struggling.

"Stop!" she fought back. "Let me go, Edwardo. We can talk this through with―"

"You're mine!" Edwardo shook her, rattling her teeth in the process. "Don't you see? Ever since I laid my eyes on you, you were mine to possess! Mine to rape, mine to abuse, only mine. Mine. Say it, Farah! State you belong to me and only me; grant me the ownership of your body!"

She was in absolute shock. "N-No! L-Let me go!" She fought back, but due to her dress and injury, she couldn't achieve her goal.

Her response earned her a brutal smack across the face, sending her head whipping to the side. She shrieked in her disbelief, touching her cheek. "You dare slap―" before she could finish her sentence, he smacked her once more, and then grabbed her cheeks in-between his fat fingers and squeezed.

Her protests came out as muffles, her small hands trying desperately to unclasp his grip on her face.

"You are so beautiful," he roughly laughed out his words. "So beautifully mine." With that, before Farah could further protest, he slammed his lips against hers, and almost instantly earned her struggles.

He forcefully penetrated her enclosed lips, his mouth devouring her entire face with its slickness. Farah thrashed violently under his clasp, and tried very hard to push him away. She flailed with no reason, but Edwardo did not stop.

Altair had his Hidden Blade already unsheathed, its sharp edge glimmering with hunger. His legs were already taking him to the scene, his ever rising fury and lethality blinding his vision with redness. Woe to anyone who'd get in his way for there'd be rivers of flowing blood.

Edwardo pulled away, gazing down at Farah's agonized expression.

"You will not accept me, will you?" he roughly questioned.

"Rot in Hell."

He jerkily nodded. "After I took you from your residence, I left half of my guards there."

The eyes that stared up at Edwardo with so much hatred were suddenly clouded with alarm. Her brown pools showcased her fear for the worst.

Altair abruptly stopped dead in his tracks, and realization dawned on him like a thunderbolt. His stomach suddenly dropped.

Farah could barely control her voice as she asked sternly, "Why? Why... What... What did you do?" When Edwardo refused to answer, she understood. Understood the worst had fallen. Her voice rose to a shaky shout. "What did you do, you bastard?! What did you do to my family?!"

She fought for release, fought for answers, her moves jerky and clumsy. "Hey!" she seethed as she got in Edwardo's face. "Answer me, answer me now, you sick pig! Wh-What did you _**dooo**_?" At the end, her vocals deepened into a growl of impatience and desperation, almost like a cry.

"If you refuse to marry me right here and now and spend the rest of your life alongside me, I vow to send my four guards to end the lives of your precious family," Edwardo threatened.

She stepped back as if she was slapped again. "_Why?!_" she exclaimed after a while. "We had our engagement, for God's sake! It's evident that I'll... marry you!"

"No. No, it's not. If you don't agree completely and wholeheartedly, your whore of a mother would always attempt to snatch you away due to her doubts. And don't get me started at your father's betrayal. Wanted to steal all my money for his own, that bastard!"

"What did you just call my mother, you nefarious bastard? Who the hell do you think you―"

"Choose!" he roared in her face. "It's either I kill them or you agree. I grant you three seconds. One."

Farah wailed as she struggled, her actions causing her neatly collected strands to tumble down on her shoulders.

"Two."

"Stop it! You don't have to do this, please!"

"It's either them or you. Now choose!"

Features shadowed, Altair approached him from behind, his hand lifted in the air to strike this nuisance down, but when he did so, for the briefest second, Farah's eyes clashed with his.

Her gaze was frenzied and wide with horror. "Them," she croaked out, eyes never Altair's.

He froze cold, his body going rigid as understanding dawned. He cursed under his breath. She wanted him to save them. Her family. She wanted him to rescue them from impending death.

"Please," she whispered, eyes watering, practically begging him to do the impossible.

Edwardo suddenly started cackling, his voice booming across the green garden. "Betraying your own family? Really? Well, now I like you more. Glad we are on the same page. Hence, worry not, they're already―"

Altair refused to withhold his blade any further. With fervour, he grabbed Edwardo's shoulder, turned him around, and put them face to face. Altair sneered, baring his teeth. "Recall me, Templar?"

The female stumbled away from Edwardo's reach, the assassin paid no attention to her. Edwardo's eyes widened in realization and Altair knew he would never forget this moment of victory when the Templar trembled in sudden fright. Before he could speak a word, the assassin pierced his sharp steel into his breast, right where his heart beat. De Pablo gasped, then blood gurgled out of his lips, and, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, Altair released him and watched as his body fell to the ground with a loud thud.

It was done.

His mission was a success. He exhaled deeply. From a far distance, mingling with the blowing wind and rustling leaves, resounded the shriek of an eagle.

By killing him now and with the four guards already drowning in their own blood, her family was safe. For now. Yet his instincts told him otherwise.

The gasp from the female made him lift his eyes up at her. She was trembling, looking at Edwardo's dead body, at Altair, Edwardo, then back at him, and he noticed she held the dagger―_his_ dagger―in her shaking hand. Good, she'd brought it.

"Fret no more, woman. The four guards he mentioned are long dead," he calmly reassured, extending his gloved hand.

She glanced at his waiting palm, her brows slightly frowned, and then glanced back at him. Slowly, as though unsure, she extended her own hand, attempting to lay it on his. She had misunderstood him yet again.

"The blade, female," he reminded her, and when she still stared at him with her eyes wide and brows furrowed and lips slightly wobbling, he frowned. She was simply staring at him and, for once, Altair had trouble reading her. He chose to mark the pure feather instead. Perhaps she was still in a state of shock.

Withdrawing the lax feather, he knelt down to mark it. He turned Edwardo's body around so he lay on his back, and smoothly dragged the feather across his bleeding chest. With that, putting the feather away, he rose to his feet.

Just when he was in the process of facing her, Altair felt something sink into his lower side. He slightly frowned when Farah's shocked face greeted his vision, and tears gradually began pooling in her reddening eyes before slipping down her cheeks.

Pain erupted from his side, spreading like fire across his abdomen. Lips parting, Altair dared to glance down.

_No... surely she didn't... _His eyes spotted the very dagger he gave her pierced inside his body. Warm blood oozed out of the split skin and down his white attire. He stumbled back, more from shock at her action than the pain.

"You stabbed me," he said, throat tightening. He clasped his wound, attempting to slow down the spilling blood.

Farah's lips parted in a tremble, and she violently shook. "I-I'm s-s-sorry. So sorry... I-I... I..." she gradually began stepping away from him, her enlarged and teary eyes focusing on his wound, his face, his wound, then back at his face. She stopped, took a step forward as if to help, then almost abruptly retreated.

Clenching his teeth together, he pulled the dagger out from his side. She had missed a vital spot, but that did not excuse her actions.

"Why?" he then found himself asking, his shadowed piercing eyes meeting horrified ones.

Her jaw dropped wide open, her figure still shaking. She outstretched her hands, as if to put some distance between them, then covered her mouth as a wretched sob escaped her. "I... didn't m-mean t-t-to, I just― I was― I'm so, _so_ sorry." With that, she turned on her heels and rushed away.

"Female," Altair warned from behind her escaping form, his voice indicating that if she fled now, the punishment for her actions would increase tenfold.

But she did not stop.

She run for her life.

"Farah!" he shouted, his chest constricting tighter and tighter at her disappearing form. This could not be happening; she could not be betraying him. This was a jest. Farah was not a traitor. But the burning at his side told him otherwise; the aching in his chest told him otherwise; as if lead had dropped to the pit of his stomach when she fully vanished from his line of sight, told him otherwise.

He ground his teeth together, his breathing heavy and rough, and took a step forward. He would not let this happen, he would not stand here, his blood spilling the way he spilled Edwardo's, while she got away with her betrayal.

Then a thought struck him, hard, causing him to stumble forth before the rise and fall of the smooth white curtains.

Templar.

She was a Templar. Her mother had mentioned about her husband knowing of the assassins, that he was great allies with de Pablo―the Assassins enemy. Edwardo could've been a sacrifice in this game to learn more about the Assassins. This all could've been an act set up by the Templar to lure an assassin out of his shadows, and he fell _right_ in it.

Farah had to fit somewhere in this equation, and even if they forced her to do this did not lessen his rising fury.

She had still seen it through. She had still _spilled_ his blood.

Altair released a bitter chuckle, thinking how ironic this whole thing was.

Damn the Templars. Damn the Crusaders. Damn Farah and her trickery.

As he heard the faint stomps of a horse running off, he knew she'd succeeded in her plan. Just like that, she escaped right under his nose.

What kind of warrior was he? What sort of man―_assassin_, God dammit―would permit this to happen? He was completely and thoroughly ashamed of himself.

And here he was, contemplating of letting her live. Never again. His feelings of pity for the female had caused a distraction―a dangerous one at that. His master warned him of the consequences, had warned what would occur when an assassin allowed even a flicker of emotion inside him. And yet he still chose to disobey.

He was to be cold; ruthless. A deadly weapon. But now, he put Al Mualim's words and his own years of training to complete shame. He'd_ failed_ in more ways than one.

He wanted to vomit at that thought.

Releasing a furious snarl, he punched the wall at his side, breaking right through it, and began walking away from the battlefield.

As his boots trod the stretching hallway, each step echoing around the space, he realized how very quiet the place was. No chatter. No laughter. Everything appeared dead. Lifeless, almost. The white curtains lifted in the air, brushing at his attire, and lowered with streaks of blood on them.

As he leisurely padded out of the building, nearly stumbling over the bodies of the two guards at the entry, Altair spotted the flaming rays of the sun slowly sinking down. Darkness would soon dawn. Good.

He spotted the lone carriage standing a few feet away and missing its stallion. He grit his teeth so hard, he swore he heard a stern _clack_ inside his mouth. The aching around his jaw became apparent, but he paid them no heed.

A soft breeze swept across the land, briefly caressing his cheek, and he inhaled. Then, bypassing the carriage, Altair walked out of the territory of the dead Templar and made his way to the nearest bureau.

With the second tenet in mind, he blend well into the crowd, kept his head low, his breathing even, and disappeared into the soon flowing crowd of civilians.

People walked by him, shoulders bumped at him, and up in the skies, he could evidently make out the shrieking of an eagle, its wide wings flapping above him.

To others he might've just been another being, casually walking by, but from within, he _saw_ red, _felt_ red, _desired_ red. He ventured forth but thought with deep hatred and vehemence that if ever their roads crossed, even for the briefest moment, Altair would bring justice to her worthless life.

He'd _destroy_ her.

That, he vowed.

-x-

1190, Damascus, Syria

Farah rode the horse as fast as his poor legs could carry him, but no matter how quick she travelled, nothing could beat the speed of her pounding heart against her ribs.

It throbbed so hard and loud, her chest pained and her ears _zinged_ with pressure.

Hot tears continuously rolled down her puffed cheeks, rewetting what was left of her dry ones. She hiccupped, jumping in her seat atop the horse, and suddenly found it extremely hard to breathe.

She had _stabbed_ him. Had freaking stabbed Altair!

Maybe even... Maybe even _killed_ him. At that thought, a pained cry lurched up from her clenched stomach and out of her trembling lips, causing her to hug her middle with one arm.

It _hurt_. Oh, god. It hurt so bad.

She hadn't meant to stab him, didn't mean to hurt him. No, no, no. Never. Not him, not _Altair_. She simply wanted to escape while he fought off Edwardo. But he ended de Pablo's life too fast, too _easily_, not leaving room for her escape, especially after being nearly traumatized by Edwardo's vile words and actions. She saw her only chance and snatched it, not thoroughly thinking it through.

It had come down on her like thunderbolt, and she hadn't even stopped for a second to question it. No. She'd simply acted.

Now, if ever he lived, he _would_ hunt her down; a prideful man like him would never rest still. And when he does find her, he's slaughter her without a seconds squander. That, she was sure of. She'd witnessed it happen many times before her very human eyes. He would be Death in all its forms.

What she did, the thought of never knowing if he lived or died, would haunt her for the rest of her living life, she was evident. Maybe even in her grave. She was a _murderer_. A betrayer. She deserved death in the most painful way it could come at a soul.

Farah grabbed the ropes tighter, trying really hard to focus ahead through her spiked lashes and blurred vision. Her shoulders shook with force, and the gasps between her cries greeted her hot ears.

Even if numerous wails and pain-filled moans escaped her lips, she had to get to her mother. After hearing Edwardo's words, she could only pray her mother was well.

There was a lead-like feeling in her stomach, and she felt that something―_everything_―was not right. But she refused to break down further. Her mother needed her, was most probably waiting for her daughter.

A tiny smile graced her frowning lips. Yes, yes. Nothing had happened to her, she was sure. Then, when she did come, they'd leave to another land, away from all the horrors, away from the assassin, and live a joyous life. Yes. Yes, that's exactly what would happen.

Surely Fate wasn't that cruel for it to be otherwise, not after all the brutality they lived through.

After riding for almost forty minutes, she arrived to her residence when darkness had already dawned. Her heart leapt up to her throat.

It was eerily quiet. Not a sound was heard, and all the torches were out.

Something was _definitely_ wrong.

Swallowing hard, Farah jumped down from the horse, nearly tripping due to her dress, and bolted into action and run past the open gates. The gates were _always_ closed this late at night. She did not even spot the guards. Not even one.

Something yelped inside her, and panic crept its way up her throat. She refused to accept the worst case scenario, refused to allow the tears to fall.

Her mother was _alright_.

Quickening her pace, Farah shot into the dark house, her eyes scanning the empty space for any servant. No one.

"Mama!" she called out in a breathless gasp.

No answer came.

Practically with all her organs in her throat, she run to the stairs. Lifting her dress up until her knees, she hastily stomped up the wide wooden steps.

"Mama!" she let out once again.

Not even a single sound came.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she frantically gazed at the two hallways to both her sides, and knew not which to choose. With a sprint, she chose to go towards the hallway to her left, and felt more panicked than ever.

She run past each room, looking into them, calling out for her mother, and even barged into her own dark chamber. Nothing. No one was here. Reaching the end of the line, she turned around, nearly losing her balance due to the force of it, and sped towards the other hallway.

The lead in her stomach became heavier, thicker, causing bile to form in her throat.

Her mother was alive. She refused to believe otherwise.

Farah passed numerous open doors, thrust open the closed ones, and continued forth when she spotted no one. Her head whipped left and right to study each room to her sides, left and right, left and right. Left and―

Just when she was about to reach the end of the hallway, her entire body froze, her muscles locked down. Her breath hitched.

… Right.

R-Right.

That last door...

Shakily, Farah gradually turned around and, as cautious as one can be, backtracked up to the last room. With her limbs trembling, her knees hitting one another, she finally came to a stop before the grand opening. She faced the ground, too afraid to even breathe, and then tightly shut her eyes.

Her eyes had simply fooled her, there was no one in the room. Yes, no one. Just the furniture.

Sobbing with force, Farah gradually cracked her lids open, lifted her head with needed courage, and tried to see past the blur.

Then, she came face to face with what seemed to be her worst nightmare come to life.

Her lips automatically parted and, with one heap, she sharply inhaled. Then she stood like that, her lungs burning from lack of oxygen and her neck straining as she tightened the muscles.

She _couldn't breathe_.

Oh, God. Oh, God. She couldn't breathe!

Farah tried really hard to inhale, but she couldn't get needed oxygen past her straining throat.

She felt as though someone had hung her by the neck from a high ceiling.

There, right before her, lay the lifeless body of her mother. A pool of crimson formed around her motionless figure, the same colour staining her lips, trickling down her chin and to her throat.

At last, Farah commanded her body to move, and the only action she could muster was raising a trembling hand to cover her mouth as her eyes burned once more.

_Dead... her mother was dead_.

She couldn't brave the silence anymore. "Mama!" Farah screamed out.

Her legs suddenly moved on their own accord, and she soon found herself falling before her mother's body.

"Ma-ma," she whispered, the hoarse sound scratching out of her tight, dry throat. Slowly, she clasped her mother's cold face, and felt her heart spasm too painfully. And yet she still found the courage to gently turn it towards herself.

Closed eyes. Bloody parted lips. A broken nose and bruised cheek. The face she knew and loved all too well. _Her mama_.

Then, Farah could no longer hold it in. She no longer could deny what―_who_―lay before her, in her very arms. With one sharp intake of breath, Farah released all her anguish.

"MAMA!" she brokenly cried out as loud as she could, hugging her blood-streaked face to her chest. "Please, no. O-Oh, God. No, no, no. No! Mama open your eyes." She caressed her cheek, watching as her mother's head lolled to the side. A sob escaped her lips. "F-For me. Please. I beg of y-you, mama. Please!"

Then, when her mother lay as lifeless as ever, she placed her head on the ground, straightened her neck, and tried to breathe life into her, tried to bring her heart to beat by continuously pounding on her chest, and when it didn't work, she attempted to make all the blood go away by wiping the floor with her own dress.

_Why_ was there so much, and _why_ wasn't it going away?

"Wake up, m-mama!" She pounded on her still chest once more. "Wake up for me. We have to go, remember?" She smiled softly, hoping her mother would respond. Just a twitch from the brows. Or fingers. _Anything_. "We have our plans to s-see th-through, so wake up. I beg of you. Please."

Oh, God. Oh, God, _no_. Resting the back of her bloody palm against her trembling lips, Farah rocked back and forth, back and forth.

Her mother did not.

"Please..." she moaned out in distress. "Please, please, please!"

Then, grabbing her mother by the shoulders, she shook her in her state of panic and hopelessness.

_She's gone_, a voice inside her head said. _She's dead_.

"No!" Farah shook her head in denial, tightly closing her eyes. "She can't be gone. She's my mother. We have to live our lives together. We are supposed to be happy. Yes. Yes, happy."

Seeing her mother still lie there with her eyes closed, Farah struggled to breathe.

"G-God, no..." With that, she threw her heavy head atop her mother's chest and loudly wept, her cries of despair filling the silent room and the entire domain.

"_M-Mama_," she softly cried out, clutching her bloody dress as tightly as her fingers would allow her. "I'm so _s-s-so_ so-sorry-y," she barely made out. Her sobs were muffled due to her face pressing deeply against her mother's chest, and knowing there would be no response, she cried harder.

"I tried," she shook her head, "I t-tried, I really d-did. I'm sorry I c-couldn't reach y-you in t-time. So sorry," she sobbed out. "Forgive me, f-forgive, mama._ Prosti m-mi._"

The soft touches that once caressed her hair and face, would be no longer.

The warmth that enveloped her in her darkest nights, would be no longer.

The beautiful smile, the sparkly emerald eyes, and the gentlest voice she knew, would embrace her in a cocoon of sweetness no longer.

Farah hugged her mother tightly. She would _not_ let go.

She'd die, right here and now.

She'd not let go of her mother.

Farah did not know how long she rested her head on her mother's chest―a few minutes? An eternity?―all she knew was that she wanted to rest here forever. In her mother's embrace.

A warm hand gently weighed down on Farah's shoulder, and a soft voice said, "Lady Farah?"

She jerked in response, lifting her head up. Then, with her teary eyes and swollen lips, Farah glanced up.

Sarah stood beside her, her own green eyes pooling with tears.

Farah swallowed, then blinked. "Wh... What are you doing... here?" she hoarsely said, her voice low.

"I was in hiding when I heard your cries, milady," she softly said.

"In hiding?" Farah frowned, blinking again. Her voice was so low and monotonous, it appeared as though she'd gone numb.

"I'll explain later. Now, please, come." Sarah smiled encouragingly. "We have to go."

Farah instantly straightened in alarm. Go? Leave her mother? "No. No," she shook her head, "You go. I'll stay here. With my mother." Then a small smile graced her lips. "She needs me."

Sarah slowly shook her head, the tears in her eyes skidding down her cheeks. "Please, rise, milady. We have to go."

Her servant bent down to lightly clasp Farah's forearm. "Come on, milady."

"No!" Farah jerked free from her clasp. "Leave me be. I will not depart. Never. I'll die here if I must."

"Come on," Sarah said again, tears still rolling down her cheeks as she clasped Farah's arm.

Farah fought to stay down but her servant's persistent pulls won over her weak state.

Why wouldn't she understand? Her mother was _dead,_ and soon she would be too.

"Sarah," Farah whispered once she was up on shaky legs. "She's bleeding."

Sarah stifled a cry from escaping. "I know," she whispered, "I know."

"It's my fault." Farah numbly stared forth, not knowing how she should react to that. Her body seemed empty and devoid of any feelings at the moment. "_I _brought death upon her."

"No! No, don't say that. It's not your fault. Whatever you say, everything will lead back to Edwardo―may he rot in Hell."

"He said I had to choose... myself or..." Farah couldn't finish her sentence. She covered her mouth with her bloodied palm and was helpless to stop the tears from once again burning her eyes. The aching feeling started blooming in her chest, breaking past her numbness and once again bringing forth all the tortured feelings.

"His men slaughtered your family the minute the carriage left plain sight. He was trapping you with his games, so even if you chose yourself, your family would've still been killed." Sarah gently rubbed her forearm up and down.

Farah glanced down at her motionless mother, and a soft cry escaped her lips. "We were to run away today." She weakly smiled. "We had planned to have a life together away from all this horror."

"You can still have that," Sarah urgently let out. "You can still have that life. You can still be happy. Come with me."

Farah slowly shook her head. "No. I cannot. I let her die, I don't deserve that privilege."

"You didn't kill her! Edwardo did! Edwardo. Not you, Lady Farah. Never you. You deserve to be happy. Come!"

Sarah started pulling Farah towards the exit.

"No!" Farah struggled, another wave of agony washing over her. "I left her once, I won't do it again!"

Sarah still held her. "Your mother would've wanted you to have a happy life. All she wanted for you was that. Your mother―"

"My mother is dead!" Farah exclaimed, her breathing shaky.

Sarah suddenly turned her around, surprising Farah with her strength, and intensely stared into her eyes. "This is not the time for despair. The men who slaughtered your family will come back and burn this place to the ground any moment now. Unless you want to die, it's best if we get out now. And fast. Do not deny yourself this freedom. You deserve it. And if your mother still lived, she'd tell you the same thing. If you cannot life this life for yourself, then live it for your mother. Do not let her death be for nothing. Honour her dream, Lady Farah."

Farah stared at her servant dumbfounded. Sarah seemed too wise for her own age, but nevertheless her words touched her beating heart. Aside all the grief and pain and despair she felt at the moment, the least she could give her mother was _this_.

Farah walked away from Sarah's clasp to where her mother lay. Then, kneeling down, she kissed her mother on the forehead. "Thank you, mama. I love you _so much. So very much._"

Knowing Farah would not take the first step away from her mother, Sarah gently brought her up, and lead them both to the exit. She cast a backwards glance at her dead mother and experienced her chest constrict.

This was wrong. So very wrong. Fresh hot tears burned her eyes, and she nearly tripped over her own staggering feet. "I can't, I can't," she cried. "She'd dead, Sarah. I can't. Don't make me do this."

Sarah hugged her close, and knowing it was essential to their survival, she lead Farah away from her own mother. With each heavy step she took, the deeper the agony cut, and the deeper it did, the harder she cried.

-x-

They strolled out from the back of the house, Sarah still holding Farah tight, as if afraid once she let her go, she'd run back inside to her mother. Her mother who at least deserved a proper burial. Even that she couldn't give her.

She deserved death in all its forms.

Sarah lead them to roofless packed carriage, and once Farah spotted it, she immediately stilled.

"Your mother prepared it the night before, making absolute sure your father would not find out." Sarah slightly smiled.

It was the carriage her and her mother should have been riding in right now. And the fact that they were not caused Farah to hug her aching middle with one arm.

Her servant guided Farah to the carriage and, with a push, she got on top of it. There was a small part of her, buried deep and drowning under these agonizing and heavy emotions, that could not believe this was actually happening.

She was free...

But by God, if she realized much earlier that her mother would be sacrificed for this, she'd never have stepped a foot in this direction. It tasted so very bittersweet, and she knew she'd not be experiencing anything sweet after this horrendous incident.

Farah suddenly felt worn out, dizzy, and gradually lowered herself on one of the packed boxes.

"Sit with me in front," Sarah suggested from the ground she stood on, looking up at Farah. Wearily, she shook her head, thinking she was going to be sick. "No," she murmured out, "I'll sit here."

Sarah nodded. "Well, hold on tight then, milady. It's going to be a long ride."

"Where are we going?" she asked, eyes fixated on her dark house. Where her mother lay dead inside. She swallowed down the thick bile.

"Jerusalem. My parents are bakers there. You'll love them." With that, Sarah whistled low, ordering the horses to march forth. They did so by releasing an aggressive huff out. With a stomp of their legs, on they went.

Farah's body gently swayed from side to side, causing her to grab onto the boxes for leverage.

Then, she saw it, right atop the roof. She saw it; saw a hanging body, and she _knew_, deep in her guts, that that was her father.

He was hanging with his feet up in the air, his body still in the darkness of the night.

Farah did not possess the strength to hold it in any longer―she vomited.

Heaving deeply, she let out another round force its way up her throat and out of her mouth.

Sarah stopped the carriage, and looked back. "Are you alright, Lady Farah?"

"Y... Yeah. Just go. Please, just go. Now." She didn't know how long she could brave this sick feeling in her gut, didn't know if she could ever get over this nightmare.

Will this day ever end?

_Please_, she clasped her head in her bloodied hands, _please let this end_. _Please let this pain go away. I beg of you, please._

Sarah once again began moving the carriage, and Farah felt her insides slightly unknot.

So many deaths today. So much blood. So much loss. And for what?

God dammit, for what?! Her stupid freedom?

Then, deep within her, Farah in a way understood why the assassin wanted to kill her off. Actions of others held a great influence on others.

There was just too much loss.

Farah hiccupped, rubbing at her burning eyes. Inch by dark inch, her house began to disappear as they rode onto a road with trees at both its sides. She only hoped this nightmare would too.

But as the carriage strolled forth, to the future, Farah kept her eyes to the back, her past, and knew tonight would haunt her for the rest of her life.

She only prayed she could honour her mother's last wish.

-x-

**End of Part I**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN:** _Hey, everyone! It's(I'm) back! Man, I missed you all. haha. Anyhoo. I need to clarify a lot of points in this story. Please do read it, it'll help you comprehend a lot of things in the upcoming chapters._

**In the original gameplay:**

_Altair becomes the Master Assassin in 1189 and at the age of 25._

_In 1190 is his mission with the Chalice (meeting and falling for Adha)_

_1191 is his mission with the Nine._

**In my story:**

_Altair meets Farah in 1190 (early in the year), at the age of 25, and spends a week or so before their separation. At that same year, he becomes the Master Assassin._

_In 1191, his fall comes. Just like in the gameplay._

_For those who thought that I wasn't going to follow the game line, well, you're wrong. Kind of. Part II will follow the main storyline BUT I'll not spend my entire story basing it off on it. Only its and bits from here and there. Part I was just a small background (made up) story so I could give Farah and Altair a backbone in their relationship. So, yes, I have the cheek to say: Let the main story begin._

_Thank you all for your devoted patience and heart warming messages. I'm glad I bring joy to most of you. I posted a review, answering some of your questions, check it if you want or don't. Most of the questions are answered with me writing this chapter, anyways._

_So, shall we?_

What We Can't Have

Part II

Chapter Thirteen

1191, Jerusalem

A cool breeze gently swept through the open window, caressing the figure lying on the bed. The covers shifted. A low sigh. Then the swift flapping's of bird wings. The figure's ears twitched at the sound, and sleep suddenly began lifting from the person.

_Her_ head rose from the soft pillow it lay on and, turning in her place to face the outlet, she watched the twittering bird in sleepy curiosity.

Her brows furrowed.

The night was dark—too dark—and something lethal vibrated in the zone. She stared blankly at the starless night, and took notice of the missing moon. Instantly straightening, she rose from the bed, padding over to the open window.

The soft breeze now blew on her face as hot air, causing her body to break out a sweat. Her mouth went dry, as her eyes, and when she inhaled, the hot air burned and scorched her insides. She coughed, tightly clutching at her chest.

_This feeling. She knew it..._

Coughing more loudly now, she began retreating from the window. Then she saw it. Her eyes clashed with the white figure stationed atop the roof right across her ajar window. She gulped.

The breeze transformed into a stormy puff of air, blowing against her like a savage bull seeing red, and made her eyes tear up. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She watched as the figure's white outfit smoothly lifted at the edges, giving it a calming yet hazardous image. It was the same calm before the thunderous storm—and she had to get away. Quickly.

But before she could act upon her wishes, the figure before her gradually walked to the edge of the roof, and then dropped itself from it, vanishing from her line of sight.

Her breathing shallow yet rough, she inched her way back to the window. Poking her head out of the outlet, she ran her gaze over the uneven roofs. Nothing. The figure had disappeared.

Somewhat relieved, she retreated.

Suddenly, a pang of pain erupted inside her chest, and it spread like wildfire throughout her body. The female grabbed her middle and clashed down to the floor.

She loudly heaved, fisting the material shielding her midriff. She began coughing, and they only increased in volume until that's all she could hear. Her lungs burned—the hot air was no help—and the muscles in her throat ached and felt raw, making breathing almost impossible.

The pain travelled up the length of her spine and straight to her brain, savagely attacking the organ. It felt as though thousands of needles were being pressed into it at the same time, nearly making her screech and curl into a ball. Her ears went deaf.

But she still lay crouched on the floor, feeling the force of her coughs rip at her throat and chest and leave a copper taste in their wake. Aimlessly trying to stifle the coughs, she shielded her lips with her hand.

Something hot and wet seeped out of her mouth, dripping on her hand. The copper taste increased, abusing her taste buds. Slowly removing her hands away, she gazed down at her open palm.

Blood.

She was coughing blood.

A cry of panic escaped her bloodied lips, shaking her insides. She felt another force building up inside her, and she was helpless to stop it. The second she lost the fight, a mouthful of blood poured out, splattering on the floor next to her knees.

Her eyes burned with tears of pain and horror. What was happening?

She couldn't stop the unbearable ache, nor the flowing blood. Attempting to rise to her staggering feet, she tried to call for aid.

No sound emerged.

Her vocals were crushed.

Again she abruptly heaved, witnessing as another round forced itself out of her throat.

_I deserve this,_ she thought. _Somewhere in my life, I've done the unpardonable. I deserve this._

Vomiting more blood, she felt her stomach painfully spasm and curl in on itself.

She silently cried out. "_Help_," she tried to voice, wiping at her mouth. _Somebody, please_.

Get out. Must get out. Danger.

She crawled towards the window in a weak manner and, grabbing on to its edge, gradually rose to weak legs. The dry, scorching air blew hard against her face, drying the saliva in her mouth. She moaned in distress.

A body suddenly flew right above her, causing her eyes to widen as it rose high in the air.

The revelation was upon her. It was coming... for her. It was coming.

Feeling all the panic swell inside her, she began walking backwards while at the same time shaking her head No. The figure began edging towards the open window.

Her insides violently shook with utter fear, causing her teeth to chatter and clack against one another.

"_N-No..,_" she tried to say. "_No, stay back!"_ Her voice was lower than the lowest whisper, but still she tried to defend herself. "_Get away from m-me!_"

It didn't. It surged straight towards her, flying past her window and hovering right above her tiny figure. In the darkness, she saw the glint of a sharp blade snap out from behind its wrist, the sound already telling her of her likely fate.

Her eyes widened a fraction.

She _knew_ this man. Who was this _man_?

There was no time to question when he suddenly came at her, the pointy dagger an inch shy away from her face.

"_No!_" she fought back, her voice low, and attempted to run. Only her legs did not move. She was stuck. Frozen. Going to die.

"_Get away!_" she tried to voice again as the blade neared her throat. "_Stop!_"

The cold tip grazed her skin, drawing a line of blood. Her pupils shrinked in terror at the monstrous shape looming right above her and at the end that was going to greet her.

She grabbed his shoulders. "_Please, mercy_," she hoarsely made out.

He showed none.

He heartlessly slammed the sharp metal into her tender throat.

-x-

Farah's eyes snapped open, and she sharply gasped, trying to swallow the upcoming scream by squirming and fisting her hands so tight, she felt her nails dig into the flesh of her palms.

She was drenched in her own sweat and shaking non-stop. Her breaths were uneven, shallow.

Deep breathe in... deep breathe out, she reminded herself. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Gradually, her fingers loosened and she relaxed against her bed.

Another nightmare. Another reminder.

Swiping her heated face with her hands, Farah cracked her lids open and blankly stared up at the wooden ceiling. Once again she remedied her breathing, trying to calm her thumping heart.

Oh, man, these nights were the worst.

Craning her neck to the left, she stared at the window, and sighed. It was the break of dawn, the roosters already starting their morning crowing. She lay in bed for a few minutes, part of her too tired to start the day, before she concluded to rise with a grunt.

Careful not to wake the other figure sleeping peacefully on the bed beside hers, she padded to the hamam, her feet softly touching the wooden floor, and washed up.

When the fresh, cold water splashed against her face, all the terrors of the night washed away with it. Of course it was not so in the beginning, but she grew accustomed through time.

For a year... every night, these nightmares plagued her. They were all that she saw, all she thought of, all she feared. Some nights consisted of her not going to sleep even when her eyes burned with fatigue, because she was terrified of what the night held in store for her. They were always either about the cursed night, the bloodied body of her mother, or... Altair.

Her heart instantly picked up speed, slamming against her chest like a drum. She buried her face in the towel and stood like that for a few heartbeats.

Deep breathe in, deep breathe out.

All the haunted memories tried to take over but she refused to cave in. Her jaw ached as Farah fought to hold back the tears of every emotion that'd corrupt her.

_It's in the past_, she reasoned with herself. _All is in the past. Calm down, Dovaros. Nothing can hurt you now. You're safe._

_Venture forwards_, she reminded herself. _Always._

Evenly breathing out, releasing all the anguish in the process, Farah straightened. She blew out air, rubbing her eyes. With every inhalation and exhalation, she calmed down.

Pushing away the terrors of the nightmare to the back of her head, she put the towel down and strolled out of the hamam.

Walking over to the sleeping form of Sarah, she felt a sly grin lift the edges of her lips. Over the year, they have grown extremely close, almost like sisters. But Sarah sometimes called her 'Lady Farah', almost always earning a growl from her. When she reminded her those days were long over, Sarah would sheepishly shrug and smile, replying, "I just like to call you that. You deserve the name, even if you aren't anything close to a _lady_." She'd obviously punch Sarah on the arm, not really proving any point.

Now, she knelt beside her best friend's bed, and brought her lips close to her ear. Sarah shifted, sighing sleepily.

Farah's grin widened. Unlike her, she was no sweetheart. Deeply breathing in, she held it in for a brief second, then, when ready, she release it in a quick yet loud scream. Right into her sensitive ear.

Her friend did not disappoint.

She flew right up, releasing her own scream. Then her eyes clashed with Farah's. And she fumed. Oh, how she fumed. Farah instantly shot to her feet, going out of Sarah's way.

"You abominable cow!" Sarah shouted at her, grabbing her pillow. Farah laughed, rushing to the door and swinging it open. "I was having the best. Dream. Ever!"

Before she made her final exit, Farah bowed like a real lady. "Rise and shine, Miss Ugly Ogre, Ruling the Lands of Jerusalem." With that, she flew out of the room, evidently aware of the pillow hurled at her direction.

"Missed me!" she called out, stomping down the stairs. "Did your fat get in the way?"

"Let's see if my foot will miss your ass!" Sarah retorted in her fuming manner. Farah snorted, rolling her eyes.

With a hop, she entered the kitchen, spotting Khadijah making the table. "You two already started your morning bickering? Because I assure you, we can already hear the roosters."

Farah gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek. "Morning, Auntie."

"Morning, sweetheart," Khadijah kissed her back. "Now what did you do this time?"

Going around the table to pick on different breakfast meals Khadijah prepared, she reached out for a piece of sweets when a hand suddenly slapped hers away.

Khadijah ticked her index finger No-No at her. Farah grumbled out a response. Then instantly reached out for it before Khadijah could stop her.

"Nothing," she shrugged innocently, moving out the way as Khadijah tried to snatch the meal back.

"You naughty girl," Khadijah tsked, but her lips twitched at the corners. "I fear that if you keep this up, no man shall ever grace our doorstep asking for her hand. Or be graced by a peaceful morning, that is."

Farah chuckled, taking a bite from the sweet. Mmm, yum-yum me. "I am starting to think roosters are so last year. I mean, with that animalistic voice, she can wake Jerusalem if you make her scream loud enough."

Khadijah laughed. Farah smiled, taking another bite from the sweet.

"Hey, I heard that!" Sarah came stomping down the stairs and into the kitchen, her finger pointed directly at Farah. She raised her palms up in innocence, then took another bite from her sweet.

"Wow, did you hear that?" Farah glanced at Khadijah, carrying a real shocked expression. "Her brain actually comprehended something."

"You're dead, Dovaros!" Sarah shouted, then took a step towards her.

"Wait!" Farah put up a finger, briefly stalling Sarah. "Do you hear that sound?"

Sarah scowled. "Hear what?"

"The sound of you losing another husband."

Farah's last comment ticked Sarah completely off, and that's why Khadijah whined out a, "Not this early in the morning," before clasping her head in her hands.

Without warning, Sarah leapt on Farah. She dodged her arms and run around the table, taking her place behind Khadijah's form. She grinned.

"Are your fat legs not keeping up?" Farah pouted. Sarah snapped her teeth.

"_Omi_, hold her in place. I will teach her a lesson."

"On how to lose weight? Sweet!"

"Oh, no, don't involve me in this ruckus." Khadijah shook her head.

Farah gave her eyebrows a jump, looking at Sarah. "What are you going to do now?"

Sarah abruptly took a step to the right, and Farah instantly moved to the left. She moved to the left side, causing Farah to take a step to the right. They did that dance for a few seconds before Sarah run around the table without warning.

Farah instantly bolted into action, running the other way.

"Girls!" Khadijah let out but it fell on deaf ears.

Farah run out of the kitchen's back door and to the dewy dawning morning, avoiding Sarah's arms once more. She emerged to the back garden where they grew vegetables.

Because she was sporting brown slacks, boots, and a red tunic, her escape was easy to accomplish. And because they spent a lot of time walking on mud, planting seeds, or around the city, shopping for ingredients, she rarely wore dresses now. Also cold months were arriving, so there was that. Oh, oh, and also Sarah's dad, Ahmad, was teaching her how to properly handle horses—even the wild ones—she found wearing pants was a necessity. He knew how to ride two horses at the same time, one feet stuck to one horse's straddle while the other on the second horse's. He even taught her the basics—because she begged him to until he could bare it no longer—so now she could ride them both. For two seconds, really. But how cool was that?

The best part in all of this was how she could freely act the way she wanted, talk in any manner she wanted—but of course she knew not to abuse that freedom—and they wouldn't even bat an eye. They accepted the way she was from the first day she'd arrived here, all bloody and dirty they could barely make out her face.

Unlike her life a year ago, where she had to watch her every action and word or even tone, she did not have to do that here. And that was all she ever desired.

To be accepted, loved and cared for. She was like a second daughter to them. She knew and felt that way because Khadijah and Ahmad saw and treated her as one. Some days, she'd almost forget she ever lost a mother, father, because they were that generous.

They filled the void within with their unlimited warmth and kindness—even when they had no reason to.

But some nights, such as the previous one, Farah would be proven otherwise. She'd remember that she did, indeed, had a mother. A mother who died because of her. And those nights would be the worst because the heaviness of the guilt would prevent her from breathing, and she'd desire death with passion, tears would stream down her sides.

She recalled the nights where she woke up screaming and would not stop until she blacked out due to the lack of oxygen.

But even then, those restless nights, Khadijah would attempt to soothe her, embracing her in her motherly way, and rubbing her back and plating kisses on her forehead. Sarah would always be there with a cup of water, and Ahmad would make sure to patrol around the house—even though nobody was there—just because it put her at ease.

They all knew what had happened to her the first week she stayed here, knew everything except the involvement of an assassin.

That, no one knew. No one would. She'd carry that secret to her grave—just like she promised Altair, whether he lived or not.

And that was another troubling thought she always had to get through, whether with cries or anguish, to no longer think if he really did pass away or thrived.

If he lived, she'd have to keep extreme watch over for him—like she wasn't doing that already.

But if he'd passed away from this world, then... she was... she was a murderer. A criminal. And that nearly dragged her to the brink of losing her mind. But hope, the small, tiny flicker of hope within, she held on to that. And her withering sanity.

He could not be dead. Deep inside, she knew he wasn't.

He was a warrior, a fighter. He would not go down by her blade when he'd assassinated mighty kings. He was a survivor to his very core.

He would live. Was living, she corrected herself. He was Altair, the soaring eagle. Freedom was his to take, even from one of the most inevitable causes such as death.

Farah didn't realize how lost she was in her musings when Sarah tackled her to the very dirt of the ground.

She _oof'd_, her face directly greeting the mud. She pressed her lips on time so as not to swallow any of the grit.

Sarah jumped up from above her, brushing her hands in a job well done. Farah turned, rose to a sitting position, and swiped the thick mud from her face. Sudden laughter greeted her ears, causing her to face Sarah.

She narrowed her eyes. "Funny, is it now?"

Sarah pointed a finger at her. "You should see your face! And, woah, I'm the Ogre? But be proud, you look like an Ogre with facial hair."

"I don't have facial hair," Farah grit out.

"Well, now you do." Sarah snickered.

Farah formed a sly smile. "Oh, laugh while you can."

"Oh, I am." She blew her a kiss, turning on her heels to walk away. Farah would not go down that easily. Well, not literally.

She shot out her leg, kicking it against Sarah's ankle. The girl toppled forth, the momentum sending her down on her face.

_Blurp!_

Pieces of mud splattered around the place as Sarah screeched a, "Mmmm!" from under the mud. Lifting her face up, she glanced back at Farah in horror—who stared back at her with amusement.

Farah pursed her lips together to stop a laugh from escaping.

"You..." Sarah grit out, then started spitting. "Ew. I think I swallowed some of the mud. What the hell, Farah! What the actual hell!" She threw some mud at Farah, and she dodged them.

"Now you should look at your face," she remarked. "If there was a competition for the World's Most Abhorrent Face, you'd be the one sponsoring it."

Just when she said that, a handful of mud slammed straight into her face, causing her skin to sting. Shocked and with her mouth still open, Farah blinked.

Then, her tongue tasted something dull and wet, and she instantly spat the dirt out. Then, gritting her teeth, Farah sent Sarah her death glare.

Her friend paled, knowing that look very well. "Okay... look," she started, slowly rising to her feet. "You started it, I just wanted to finish it."

Farah shook her head in disbelief. "You messed with wrong gal, s—"

"Khadijah! Are they warring again?" came the rough voice of Ahmad from inside the kitchen. Both Sarah and her froze in their seats. "Why those two..."

Oh-oh. Oh, no.

Both of them jumped to their feet, frantically looking left and right.

"What do we do?!" Sarah fiercely whispered out, desperate.

Farah grabbed her head, thinking. "We, uh... um... oh, got it! The front door! Let's run to the front door!"

They both bolted into action, and Farah thought if their hearts were beating in the same, fast rhythm.

Ahmad disliked—like, a lot—when they warred, and would punish them by grabbing their ears and leading them to the stable, the barn with all of Ahmad's horses, and ordering them to clean their dump. And no horse, ever, shits as much as Ahmad's.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Farah suddenly let out in the midst of their escape.

"What?!" Sarah shot back.

"Uh, attitude."

"Just be out with it!"

"We can't go through the front door in this state. You know how auntie gets when it comes to cleanliness."

Sarah stomped her foot on the ground, cursing loudly. No one rivalled Khadijah when it came to being a clean-freak. She saw one little teenie, bitsie, you-can-barely-even-see-it speck on the side of the wall, and all hell broke loose.

Plus, she was so scary when angry, Farah would rather clean horse dumps.

"We have to hide," Sarah suddenly said.

"Where?" Farah questioned, her heart in her throat. Ahmad would come out any moment now and if he saw them in this state, they wouldn't need a map to know where the stable was.

"Sarah! Farah!" Ahmad yelled out, and sounded oh, so awfully close.

They both hastily looked around for a place to hide. Then, spotting the wooden planks rising in order next to the stack of hay, both of them simultaneously let out a, "Behind the planks!"

Then both stared at each other in silence.

"That's my hiding spot, I said it first," Farah warned Sarah.

"No, I said it first."

"Perhaps you didn't hear me well with all the mud in your ear, let me clarify. I said it first."

"You so didn't. Go find yourself another one."

Farah stared at her for a few heartbeats, then, without warning, she bolted into action, running towards the planks.

"Oh, no, you didn't!" Sarah let out from behind her. She grabbed Farah from the shoulder and tossed her to the back. Farah latched onto her arm, taking her with her. Both of them struggled to run, and both of them stopped each other from doing so.

"Let go," Sarah grit out.

"Only if you do," Farah evenly replied.

"Girls!" Ahmad called for them, and Farah knew he was very close to getting out of the back door.

"Shit," both of them cursed.

Then, "Good luck," Sarah said, and before Farah could understand her words, Sarah knocked her feet from under her. She fell on her ass, releasing a gasp out. Sarah sped towards the wooden planks and hastily hid behind them. Due to the small woods, she could still make out her feet.

Why that...

"Farah?" Ahmad's voice came from behind her. She instantly straightened, rising to her feet.

Clearing her throat, she shaded her eyes with her hand above them as she gazed up at the sky, pretending to look at nature.

"Yes?" she calmly let out. Ahmad stomped closer to her. "Where is Sarah?"

"Sarah?" she asked in confusion, thinking if she should sell her out. But if she did so, then Ahmad would know they warred and would make them clean horse dump all day long. Hence, she decided to protect Sarah. For now.

"Probably still sleeping, I don't know." She shrugged, not glancing back at Ahmad.

"Oh," came Ahmad's surprised tone. "Then what was all the noise I heard?"

"Just my singing," she blurted out without thinking.

She imagined him nodding. "Well, alright then. What are you doing out here, and so early in the morning?"

"You know, just looking at the sunrise." Farah shrugged again, still not facing him. He was most probably finding it odd that she was not turning to bid him a well-mannered greeting.

"The sun is rising from the other side, Farah," Ahmad slowly stated.

Farah froze, pursing her lips and closing her eyes. Oops. "Oh, sure," she awkwardly laughed, waving his words away.

"It... is," Ahmad replied, slightly frowning.

"Cool."

A beat of silence passed. Then, "Farah," he softly said, his hand resting on her shoulder. She slightly jumped at the touch. Don't turn me around, don't turn me around, don't turn me around.

"If you had... one of those nightmares, you can talk to me. You know that, right?"

Farah's heart softened at his words and she felt a smile form. That was why she no longer woke up screaming, because he aided her get over the first stages of panic. The hardest stage.

Farah shook her head, still smiling. "Yes. Yes, of course I know that."

Deciding to get this over with, she fully turned around.

At the first sign of her face, Ahmad performed a double-take, letting out a, "Good Gracious!"

Awkward smile still enact, Farah innocently asked. "What?"

His lips parted, but no words emerged. Then, he arched a black brow. "Uh, what have you done with your face?"

Farah touched her cheeks, playing the confused part. "Oh, this!" she formed a brief laugh. "This is, uh, just a... mask. Yes! A mask! I heard someone say the mud under the tomatoes prevented wrinkles from forming. Stupid, I know. But, hey, girl's gotta try, right?"

Ahmad's brow arched even further. "You don't have wrinkles."

"I know," she quickly answered. "Just for the... future, you know."

Sarah was so going to pay for this. Her cheeks heated in embarrassment at her own stupid words. For the future? Really, Farah? Really?

"O-kay." Ahmad forced a smile, probably thinking her mad. "You enjoy your... sunrise. But it's this way," he pointed towards his back and at the yellow rising star. "There, you see it?"

Farah performed nods. "Yeah, I do. Oh, there it is!" She let out in fake wonderment.

"Yes, that's the sun."

Farah arched a brow at him. "I know what the sun looks like."

"Oh, I know," Ahmad patted her cheek, smiling, "Just checking."

At Farah's narrowing eyes, he let out a, "Okay, I should go now. Take good care of yourself while I'm gone."

"I sure will," she replied. Ahmad nodded, turned on his heels, and began walking towards the house. Only when his figure completely disappeared into the house, Farah, with her hands forming into tight fists, let out a gritted, "_Saaraah..._"

-x-

1191, Masyaf

Altair awoke in the silent, empty room, his breathing calm and collected. Nothing in particular had startled him out of slumber, just the plain interruption of his consciousness. Despite the short energizing nap he took, he released a weary sigh out.

It was peculiar, really, knowing you felt calm and at ease yet felt some kind of disturbance in the zone.

He lay in the silence of his room, staring forth at the cold hearth stationed before his bed, its crackling flames long put out and dead. Only the view of black ashes greeted him, giving the chamber a cool atmosphere.

His gaze travelled up the length of the red blanket that draped his body until the waist, and at the scars running along his abdomen.

His golden eyes stilled at the one right next to his left hip bone, the scar rotating sixty degrees to the right. Altair stared at it for a long while, his mind and thoughts devoid of any reaction, and at its rugged form, taunting him of how badly he messed up. Ah, there it was.

He softly scoffed, looking up at the stony ceiling. The sudden mewl of a cat greeted his ears, and he lazily craned his neck to the side. A white ball of fur suddenly rubbed her soft head against his jaw. He gave Dania a brief scratch behind the ears. She purred loudly, further increasing her rubbing.

Glancing back at the ceiling, his thoughts once again clouded him.

How badly he wanted to avenge, to witness _her_ blood flow and coat his blade. How badly he desired their roads to cross so he could at last transform the images in his dreams into sheer reality.

Releasing a breath out, he rose to a sitting position. That didn't stop Dania from brushing her fury body against his sides. Throwing his legs over the mattress, he rested his head in his broad palms and swept them over his short, dark hair.

Today, he'd ride to Jerusalem. Al Mualim had given him another target—Majd Addin.

Rising to his feet, he walked around the bed and to the wide window to his right. It took up half of the wall, the yawning entrance showcasing a full-view of the land below him. He had the East, West, and North directing towards him, thus making it easier to spot an approaching ambush from miles away.

Sporting only black slacks that hung low on his hips, he casually leaned against the stony frame of the wide window, and gazed forth.

It was the break of dawn, specks of golden rays rising in the horizon. Leisurely, the sun rose in grace, blessing the Holy Land with its golden glory. The cold morning air gently blew against his bare chest, causing the hairs on his nape to prickle.

Even with the chilling atmosphere, he stood still, deeply inhaling and exhaling the crispy air.

He gazed down at the village below him and spotted the civilians slowly emerge from their homes and start their day. He examined them for a long while, vaguely noticing how forcefully he worked his jaw. His eyes slightly narrowed.

After his disobedience, his fall to the shaming status of a Novice, and after the start of his peculiar missions, there was something that was bothering him greatly. Immensely.

Perhaps it was the unclear words the Templars uttered before their final breath, perhaps the straying metaphorical and philosophical answers his Master tossed at him every time he demanded clearance, or maybe the uncalled for and unreasonable quivering feeling that every once in a while sent a chill up his spine, that was causing the dark aspects of his personality to spring forth.

Honestly, he could deny it no more. Despite his Master being the closest figure of a father to him, Altair knew, deeply in his churning guts, that Al Mualim was hiding something. The answers he gave Altair were not satisfactory even when it seemed like they were enough.

He crossed his arms against his chest and slowly ran his tongue against the straight line of his upper teeth.

After the female's—he felt repulsed mentioning her vile name—dared to betray him, he had ridden back to Masyaf after his week-long mission. When he'd arrived, it was under attack, the Crusaders invading every corner of the fortress.

Soon after the victory of the Brotherhood, he had risen to the honourable status of Master Assassin. Perhaps the identical skills that aided him in becoming Master Assassin were the same ones that failed him in putting an end to the woman's life, that caused the rage in him to roar higher.

Her betrayal had affected him more than he'd ever like to admit—even to himself. Slaughtering off innocents, acting carelessly and jumping straight to the kill—disobeying all three important tenants—those errors were his downfall when he acted upon the rage she left igniting.

In the same manner he'd permitted the thought of letting her live in freedom, he allowed the same rage he'd felt after her betrayal to distract him. Now, because of her, he dropped to the level of a Novice.

But, of course, if Altair was a lesser man, he would've placed the blame on her. But he was not, and the she was not at fault. Altair was trained better than to fall to the storming effects of emotions, was trained to do better. Be better.

He simply had not, and that is where his errors lay.

Altair suddenly grimaced. He was thinking of her. Again.

Releasing a displeased grunt, he turned away from the window and strode to where his clothes resided atop a wooden two-levelled shelf.

He quickly dressed, clicked and shoved his weapons on, and swiftly swung his hood forth. Striding back to the window, he propped himself atop its edge and, grabbing the side of the stony frame, Altair glanced down at the yawning ground and the thick wooden planks sticking out of the castle's structure, then fearlessly jumped down. His chamber was at least sixty-five ft. above ground, and he could easily fall to his death. Well, good thing the title Novice did not live up to its name when regarding him.

His booted feet slammed against the plank's surface—it didn't even budge—and he crouched low, gaining needed balance with life and death. Turning in his place, he readied his legs for a jump across planks, and then leapt forth. _Tap! _Contact_._

In that manner, he made his way down to the stony sphered open building where all his brethren performed their Leap of Faith.

Once he reached his destination, he gently jumped down, straightened, and then began walking up to the flat, narrow wooden platform that stretched outside the safety of the stony barriers of the structure.

He strode to its very edge, his feet skimming over its tip. A soft yet chilly breeze swept past him, briefly lifting his white robes and fluttering his hood.

Altair glanced down at the thirty ft. fall, and felt his chest swell with the well-known and embraced sensation of sheer excitement.

Never gets old.

Inhaling deeply, Altair relaxed his body. Then, just alike the first time he performed his Leap of Faith at the tender age of thirteen, with nothing held back but with confidence pumping in his body, he jumped in the same manner.

Thin air welcomed him with open arms, its winds enveloping his figure from all sides. Feeling no solidity beneath his feet, that is when the emotion hit him.

Freedom.

He was bound by nothing. Not the support of the Earth, not the thin air now desperately attempting to somehow catch him, and not even the skies he reached out to.

It was just the effects of his Leap and the uplifting sensation of his Faith.

Altair splayed his arms wide open, this time welcoming the Earth.

Nothing could rival this feeling of utter self-achieved peace. A rush of adrenaline rocked his body, and he turned mid-air, giving the land below his back.

With that, Altair fell.

-x-

**AN:** _Yeah? Yeah_.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN:** _The first scene and its conversations are taken from the game-play. I own none of it. Well, except the description of emotions and actions. I wrote this chapter pretty fast, ey? Well, because it's short. Hey, lookie! It's chapter fourteen._

What We Can't Have

Chapter Fourteen

1191, Jerusalem

With a jump, Altair invaded the Assassin's Bureau. He strolled inside, briefly preparing himself for the negative comments Malik would throw at him.

"Safety and Peace, Malik," he saluted.

"Were the city was possessed of either. Why do you trouble me today?"

"Al Mualim has marked Majd Addin for death. What can you tell me about him?"

He stood before the black counter, gazing at the one-armed man. Malik run his tongue against his teeth, his dark eyes briefly flickering down as he thought for an answer.

"Saladin's absence has left the city without a proper leader, and Majd Addin has appointed himself to play the part. Fear and intimidation get him what he wants; he has no due to claim the position."

Altair gave a curt nod, saying, "That ends today."

Malik suddenly grimaced, then grit his teeth. "You speak too readily! This is not some slaver we're discussing; he rules Jerusalem and is well protected because of it! I suggest you plan your attack carefully—get to better know your prey."

Altair nodded once more. "With your help, I will. Where would you have me begin my search?"

Malik straightened, his features carrying signs of evident surprise. "What's this? You're actually asking for my assistance instead of demanding it? I'm impressed."

Irritated by Malik's sarcastic retort, he patiently stood his ground. "Be out with it."

The former assassin's lips twitched. "As you wish. Here's where I would look; first, to the Southwest near the mosque. After that, head South of here. There are two locations that might interest you; the Southernmost church is one, the other is in the streets, near the synagogue."

Once again nodding his approval, Altair turned to leave. But before he did, an idea popped in his mind, and he faced Malik, deciding to repay him for his mockery before.

"Thank you for your help, Dai," he said, knowing acutely how Malik disliked that title.

His comrade did not disappoint. "Don't foul this, Altair!"

Altair walked away, grinning to himself, and leapt up to the roof, being embraced by the sunny streets of Jerusalem.

-x-

1191, Jerusalem

Farah lazily sat at the window side of her and Sarah's shared room, a book in one hand and a crunched apple in the other. She took a strong bite, turning a page on her book. Her gawking eyes took in the black-inked writings, the words imprinting themselves in her brain.

Her features softened in pity as she read of Layla's suffering. Farah was currently learning Arabic, and to fasten her training, she picked up on Arabic poetry.

Her favorite was the story of Layla and Majnun, the madman who's infatuated with the heroine. It was beautiful.

Although she did not understand much of the words, she was aware of the plot.

"Are you ready?" Sarah entered the room, loosely draping her head with a scarf.

Without taking her eyes off of the book, Farah said, "For what?"

"To find me a goddamn husband. For the bazaar, obviously." Sarah shook her head. "Are you gonna get up or not?"

"Wait, let me just finish this page." _Book_, she internally corrected.

"You said that the last time I called you. And the other four times before that. Get up now or I swear to God I'll drag you out of the house myself."

"Okay," she replied in a monotonous voice, eyes still glued on the book. Farah wasn't paying much heed to her friend when Sarah stomped to where she reclined against the window on the cushion mats on the floor, and abruptly grabbed her revealed ankle.

Before she could voice her protest(s), Sarah tugged—hard.

Air whooshed out of her lungs as she felt her spine slam against the flat wooden surface of the floor. She barely stopped herself from grimacing.

Sarah began dragging her towards the ajar door.

Farah groaned and, whining, said, "Okay! Okay. I'm coming. Let go. Now. Let _gooo_."

Her friend still dragged her forth, the force of the tug causing Farah's body to not-so-gently turn and her stomach to skid across the floor. Her wide white tunic dragged up to her breasts, revealing her tummy.

"Sarah! Sarah, stop it." Trying to cover her revealed skin whilst holding onto her book and apple, she struggled to loosen Sarah's tight clasp by attempting to wiggle her ankle free.

Her fruit rolled out of her hand, and her hold on her book was lost, the ever increasing distance separating her from her possessions.

"Okay, okay, okay! I'm up! See?" Farah groaned out despite still being on the floor. Sarah instantly released her, knowing fully-well how hard her foot would smack against the floor.

At the moment of contact, the promised pain sizzled around her ankle and up the length of her leg. She closed her eyes to suppress a strained cry from escaping.

Once the pain waned away, she opened her eyes and stared up at her friend.

Sarah smiled innocently. _Why that..._

Farah sighed, gradually rising to her feet. "I was having such a good time reading Layla and Majnun."

"You read it more than I could count with my fingers; why you come back to it is beyond me," Sarah said, putting on her black cloak. Farah picked up her scattered possessions from the floor and placed them on her bed. Walking up to the wooden shelf that rose beside her bed, she got her own raven cloak and red scarf. She loosely swung the scarf over her head and, bringing up one edge, she shielded her lower face with a pin. _It's safer this way_, she thought, guarded.

Wearing her cloak and putting on her boots, she hopped up.

"Let's go?" she asked Sarah, smiling.

"No, let's stay," came the sarcastic retort. Rolling her eyes, she followed Sarah out of their room.

Downstairs, they grabbed two baskets from a corner in the kitchen, next to the sack of potatoes, and made their way to the main door.

"Girls!" came Khadijah's voice from the sitting room.

"Yes?" Farah answered as she swung her braided hair over her shoulder.

"If you can, and I hope you do, can you get some sweets? Perhaps Kenafeh?"

"Sweets, again?" came Ahmad's voice.

She heard Khadijah huff. "Yes. Again. Don't pretend like you don't eat some—I mean, most of them. I see you sneaking out a few from the back of the house."

Ahmad sputtered. "No- How- That is not true, dear wife."

Farah rolled her eyes, knowing their arguments would soon vibrate the walls of this house.

"Sure!" she replied fast, opening the door.

"You two have fun. And be safe!" Khadijah called out.

"You too," Sarah murmured back, snickering. Smiling, Farah lightly punched her on the shoulder. Both of them exited the house, baskets in each hand.

After walking for a brief moment, a sudden yet cold shiver swiftly run up the length of her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Farah abruptly stilled, the effect of the shiver causing her to sharply gasp.

Her eyes briefly flickered towards the city that splayed out before them, and felt her heart suddenly sink to the bottom of her stomach. Her brows furrowed, and she gulped.

_This feeling again... What is this sensation?_

Over the past year, it would visit her randomly, and it was _always_ when she ventured outside.

"You coming?" Sarah's voice snapped her out of her reverie, causing her eyes to settle on her waiting friend. Farah forced a smile, shaking the feeling off.

"Yeah, I am," she halfheartedly replied, picking up her pace.

As they both walked down the road, with every stomp of each step, no matter how badly Farah attempted to ignore it, the terrifying feeling of her walking towards her doom hung heavily on her shoulders.

-x-

The two women strolled around the open market, looking or stopping to buy the required ingredients, and then picking up their leisure pace once more.

The sun soared high in the sky, its golden—almost blinding—rays warming the city below and displaying a blithesome atmosphere. Despite its hot rays warming her back, the soft, cool breeze that blew against her body made the heat tolerable. The air was fresh and warm, and hectic events encircled them.

Chatter was everywhere, the sellers shouting out their goods and the civilians bargaining their way through their determination. To be quite precise, the place was crowded and it took everything in one's self from bumping into another being.

With their half-filled baskets, they shuffled through the crowd of people.

"What else do we have to buy?" Sarah asked, very close to whining.

Farah pursed her lips, gazing inside her basket, then at Sarah's. "We've got the carrots, onions and cabbage, the only thing that is left to purchase is fresh meat and—"

"Sarah! Sarah!" a voice boomed from the crowd, cutting off Farah mid-sentence. "Over here! I'm here!"

As both of them searched for the source of the voice, they soon spotted a hand waving at them above numerous heads. Farah frowned, trying to make out the figure from between the moving bodies of the pedestrians. It appeared to be a... man.

Suddenly, she stilled, feeling amusement spark in her chest.

"Holy," Farah said, eyes widening. This was going to be fun.

"Shit," Sarah finished, sharing Farah's emotion. But her friend felt no amusement; she instead paled.

"Come on!" Farah said, grabbing Sarah by the arm and tugging her forth. Before her friend could stubbornly protest, they were pushing between the bodies in the crowd. Once they reached the clearing, standing before the ever smiling man known as Umar, Farah broadly smiled back in return. Although he couldn't see it, she hoped her eyes were doing the job.

Sarah's frown only deepened further.

"Hey, Umar!" Farah said cheerfully. "You're just the man we wanted to see."

An amused black brow arched up. "Oh?" he issued, hopeful eyes briefly flickering over to Sarah—to which her friend responded with a smug smile.

Umar, as Sarah mentioned him to be, has loved Sarah since they were children. Of course, her friend had never returned the similar feelings. And never even told Farah the reason why. Umar—well, to her—was a handsome young man. He rose to six feet and three inches, possessing light brown hair, sparkling gray eyes, and skin so white, it put hers to shame.

Oh, and, he also sold sweets.

_How sweet_, Farah teased inside, smile widening another fraction. Then a thought hit her, causing her to slightly falter.

No wonder auntie wanted to get some sweets... did she ever mention how much she loved that woman's cunning plans?

"How may I help you?" Umar's manly—yet laced with a rare softness of that of a boy's—voice interrupted her musings.

"Auntie yearns for sweets once more," Farah politely informed.

Umar smiled, his innocent eyes sparking to life. "Follow me," he said, gaze jumping to Sarah once more.

Her friend was staring up at the sky, as if praying for needed patience.

"You coming?" Umar asked, and it took a while for Sarah to realize he was talking to her.

She glanced at him, emerald eyes hard and slightly squinting due to the sun's rays. "Yeah?" she answered matter-of-fact, as if his question was of the inane. Umar over-looked her rudeness, his smile widening.

It seemed he'd smile at her even with her hands wrapped around his neck, Farah thought. Her chest slightly ached at the unfairness.

"Come on, then!" he said to them both, turning on his heels. They began following him into the moving crowd, and soon entered his cool store. The air was sweet, the many delicious pastries filling her nostrils and her heart and causing her to sigh. Yum. If only she was a cook; she'd eat all the sweets she made.

Umar walked over to the wooden counter, knelt down, and brought out a wrapper.

"Tell me," he said, waiting for their order.

"Auntie wants Kenafeh. Five slices, please," Farah issued with a polite smile.

Umar nodded. "I've also made this great pastry this morning, it consists of of honey and nuts. You should try it."

"And try it I so will."

He walked over to one of the tables and began cutting their chosen pastry to pieces.

"Hey, can you also put one which consists cinnamon?" Farah butt in, her mouth watering.

"You got it," came the reply.

As Sarah waited by the exit, emerald eyes still hard, Farah watched Umar as he wrapped up the sweets, then cloaked them with a red cloth.

"Here," he said, walking over to her and lending her the neatly wrapped box. Farah smiled, placing it in her basket, and reached for the coins.

A hand suddenly extended, stopping her. Farah glanced up at Umar, brows furrowing. He smiled down at her.

"Think of it as a gift from me," he said.

Farah chuckled. "You're too kind, but I cannot do that. You deserve payment for your hard work, Umar."

"It is only to you two, you needn't worry about any salary," he reassured.

Farah shook her head. "The topic is not about your salary but your hard work. Simply put, it feels wrong to do this. Take the coins, please." She drew out the said golds.

Umar once again stopped her. "No, sister, it is a gift. I cannot accept the coins."

"I insist," Farah pressed. "Please, brother."

"Enjoy your sweets."

Farah opened her mouth to protest but the footsteps resounding from behind stopped her. Sarah was in front of her before she could even blink. Her friend took the coins from her hand and, grabbing Umar's, shoved them in his open palm.

Both of her and Umar were speechless.

"Umar," Sarah said, her voice stern and unbending. "You show this generosity to my family almost all the time. Do not further abuse this act of kindness. Everything has its own limits. So, now, take these coins. _I_ insist. You've been far too generous, but you need this money. If not for yourself, then surely for your father."

At Sarah's last words, Umar's eyes instantly hardened, almost narrowing, and his jaw muscle ticked. Farah slightly frowned, but kept the curiosity to herself.

"Take good care of him. Good day." With that, Sarah turned on her heels and, grabbing Farah's arm, ushered them out of the store.

Farah glanced back, uttering a quick, "Thank you, again," at Umar before disappearing from his line of sight.

Once outside, she withdrew her arm away from Sarah's tight grip. Her friend kept on walking, not bothering to stop even if they were already out of the store. Farah frowned at her friend's reaction.

"Sarah," she called. She didn't respond.

"Sarah," she called out once more, this time higher. Her friend still did not cease her stomps. If she walked any further, Farah would lose absolute sight of her.

"Sarah!" she shouted, not caring when some eyes dragged to her direction.

At that, her friend at last turned around, yelling out a frustrated, "What?!"

Farah arched a brow at her, then cocked her head to the side. "You're going to the wrong way."

Sarah blinked, then exhaled loudly, walking over to her in that moody way of hers. What was with this behavior? She never acted this way.

Once her friend reached Farah's side, they began striding forth. Farah clasped her slightly heavy basket closer and, facing the girl, said, "I get that you're pissed, but you don't get to release it out on me. And not even without a proper explanation, at that."

Sarah sighed, releasing an imaginary steam out. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Farah nodded. "Apology pending. But can you please, for the love of God, explain what happened in there? Correction, your sudden outburst?"

"He's annoying," came the clipped retort. Farah raised her brows at her comment, once again feeling bad for Umar.

"He was simply being nice, Sarah," she calmly offered. "Maybe you don't know this, but such people still exist rather than just your kind."

Sarah huffed. "He's just so... so persistent."

"Well, people who like people act like that. They try to win over the person's affection," she tried to reason, but for Sarah it seemed like that was not good enough explanation. "Okay, yes, I was getting irked by his kindness, too. But if you were absent, the situation would've been different. Which brings me back to the topic at hand. He's loved you since, hell, perhaps the second you were out of the womb. You can't truly blame him. He's at least trying."

"Well, he should stop. Numerous times have I told him I'm not interested, and my answer has not changed. Nor will it—ever. He should simply give up and be with another."

Farah watched Sarah in silence, the chatter and cackling around them increasing in volume.

"You're not telling me something," she at last said. Sarah licked her lips, lashes fluttering downwards.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she tried to say nonchalantly. Oh, Farah would have none of that.

"Oh, you do." Farah grinned. "Tell me, what is bothering you?"

"Nothing."

"Sarah..."

"Just leave it alone. Nothing's irking me." A lie. One Farah could easily discern. She always knew when her dear friend was lying. How? Because she'd always say, "Nothing's bothering me! Wah wah wah," when there was evidently something gripping at her.

"I know you, Sarah bin Ahmad, and right you're the biggest liar in town. You can tell me anything, you know that. If not, let me remind you. You can tell me anything. I don't and won't judge. But if it is something that dear... then," she sighed, her shoulders sagging. "You know best. But know that I'm always here for you, no matter what. You know that—"

"I love another."

"—right? Because you've been there for me, I'll be there for—" Farah suddenly froze, her eyes going wide and wild. In her stoic state, she gradually turned her face towards Sarah.

"What did you... just say, Sarah? I'm sorry was that a— I mean a— Answer. Now."

Her friend faced the ground, features shadowed. Farah stepped in front of her, studying her with her lips parted.

Surely she had misheard, right? This hard-shelled, aggressive and stubborn woman could not have succumbed to the fluttery and soft sensations of love, right? Was the Apocalypse upon them?

"Sarah, what did you just—"

"You know exactly what I said," she interrupted, head still bowed down. Farah pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, her lips twitching.

Oh... my... God.

"Okay, okay," she inhaled deeply, then impatiently exhaled. "This is very difficult for me to digest, as you must already know, so give me a moment. Okay, alright. I mean— you love someone— like, woah, I just— who is it?" she suddenly asked.

Sarah was silent, nearly provoking Farah to grab her shoulders and shake the answer out of her. Her closest friend was in love with someone and she didn't know about it?!

"Who is it, Sarah? This is something big, you have to tell me everything. Is he cute? Rich? Oh, is he rich? This is essential to my survival."

Sarah inhaled deeply, then, slowly, she raised her head back up, emerald eyes clashing with brown ones. She exhaled.

"You," Sarah softly said.

For a whole minute, Farah dumbly smiled at her, the single word hanging heavily over them. Then, with her awkward smile still enact, she drawled out a, "Whaaa...t?" To make matters worse, she added, "I'm... flattered?"

Sarah pursed her lips silence, her teeth digging into her lower lip. Farah was still motionless, her mind still having trouble processing Sarah's confession.

"You... mean to say... you love... me? Like, me? Farah me?"

Sarah's shoulders shook, then, she burst into fits of flowing laughter. Farah was taken-aback, and gazed at her in confusion. What was the meaning of this?

"Oh my God." Her friend deeply inhaled, trying to catch her breath. Farah was still struck dumbfounded.

"Sarah..."

"I'm so sorry, it's just—" she started laughing again.

"Sarah," Farah gritted out. Sarah straightened her posture, pressing her lips together to suppress the still threatening-to-escape chuckles.

"Okay, alright. I'm serious now." She exhaled deeply, calming herself. "I'm just jesting."

"What?"

"I simply wanted out from the solemnity of the situation." She formed a can-you-blame-me shrug?

Realization dawned, and Farah wanted to shout and laugh at the same time but the only thing she performed was, "Oh, good gracious!" and punched Sarah's forearm, making her wince. "What the hell?!" She laughed out. "I thought you were serious. Don't ever do that again, you nearly provoked my heart to have a seizure."

Sarah released a chuckle. "It's just so fun watching your dumb expressions. Whut? Me, Furuh?" she mimicked Farah in a stupid manner.

"You're so dead." Farah shook her head. "But luckily for you, we're in public. So I can't really murder you. No, but seriously—joke's aside—who is it that you love? Maybe I should perform a prayer for that poor man."

Sarah chuckled, lightly punching her in the arm. "Shut up."

Farah grinned.

After a while, Sarah's beaming expression dropped and in its place was the look of torture and utter sorrow. Almost hopelessness. Farah's chest constricted at the sight, already knowing the person meant a lot to her stubborn friend. Well, go figure, she dryly thought.

She faced Farah, forming a small yet pitiful smile. "Let's go sit down somewhere, and I'll unburden myself."

"Okay," she murmured, nodding. Once they found a shaded bench, they sat down, and Farah quietly waited for Sarah to begin.

Sarah rested her basket down on the ground, and cast her eyes low. Then, ever so softly, she started. "What I'm about to tell you... No one knows of it."

Farah gradually straightened. "Not even your—"

"No." Sarah shook her head. "Not even my own mother."

Farah bit her lower lip in deep thought. Sarah literally told her mother, if not her father, everything. They were close like that, and now realizing she kept this secret away from even the closest figure(s) in her life disquieted Farah.

Nevertheless, she gave her friend her unwavering attention.

Sarah rubbed her palms together—nervous, probably—and sat in silence. Then, she suddenly laughed, more to herself than at anything else.

Exhaling lowly, she uttered the name of her love, "His name is Malik."

-x-

**AN:** _THERE WILL BE MORE!_


	15. Chapter 15

**AN:** _You guys are just so awesome. Reviewers, followers and those who favorite are good, yes. But mine are the cutest and the most awesomajestic, you guys are like my little assassin reviewers. I don't know what I'm saying, all I know is that you've all been so super-duper into this story which, by the way, encouraged the shit out of me to continue it. Have you seen my other fanfics? They're still dead as hell._

_Shout out to y'all._

What We Can't Have

Chapter Fifteen

1191, Jerusalem

_Sarah rubbed her palms together__—nervous, probably—and sat in silence. Then, she suddenly laughed out, more to herself than at anything else. Exhaling slowly, she uttered the name of her love, "His name is Malik."_

Her friend tossed Farah a sideways glance before facing the ground once more. Farah swore she looked like she was about to cry. Her heart ached in her chest.

Sarah cleared her throat. "He was, uh, one of my closest friends, actually. His house was in our neighborhood and I'd go there to spend some time with him. He'd always welcome me with a smile, and it was such a wonderful smile... full of warmth and innocence," she shuddered, "I loved it so much."

She silently watched another side of Sarah she never knew reveal itself. Her friend continued. "By time, we became close. Almost inseparable."

"What happened?" she at last questioned. Sarah weakly shrugged.

"He left," she croaked out, voice breaking at the end. "Abandoning me."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sarah sat in silence for quite some time, the muteness between them stretching and yawning until, finally, she spoke once more. "I was around six-years-old, while Malik eleven, when we began hanging out. For a whole year, I recall, we were together. He even taught me how to read, and was the rock in my life." She paused, smiling, "I remember calling him Malika just to tease him."

Farah silently listened on, and gently smiled at her words.

"I was too young to understand, that I knew, " her friend suddenly uttered, mood once more distressed. "But he'd always kept me in the dark..."

Her brows furrowed and Farah, confused, questioned. "Kept you in the dark?"

Sarah swallowed hard. "I myself had not known but he'd always—and by always, I mean _always_—literally be training with his father. I'd sometimes sit and watch him spar with his old man, and he'd clasp this wooden stick—a replica of a sword—and try to aim his father. As naive as a child is expected to be, I once recall crying because I misunderstood their sparring to a fight of hatred. I ran up to Malik, shielding him from his own father, and with tears running down my face, I—as clearly as the day—remember saying, "don't worry, _I'll_ protect you.""

Her friend chuckled, shaking her head. "How stupid. And yet... that's the bravest I've ever been."

"You're always brave," Farah softly interrupted. "Without you, I can safely say my body would've been burned and buried six ft. underground. Even now, telling me a story that's clearly very painful for you to even mention, I think you quite admirable. You better remember these compliments because you won't receive them again."

Sarah faced Farah and, resting her cheek on her hand, warmly smiled. "Thanks," she muttered. Farah winked at her.

Inhaling deeply through her mouth, she once again redirected her face away. "Remember the white-cloaked men? The _Assassins_?" she suddenly asked out of the blue.

The smile on Farah's face almost instantly dropped and she stiffened, muscles rigidly locking together. Her lips parted in awe when the image of Altair's shaded face crossed her mind, provoking her heart to thump loudly in her chest.

When Farah failed to answer, Sarah continued anyways. "I..." she licked her lips. "He's one of _them_."

In a snap, Farah straightened, the situation finally dawning on her like lightening bolt. "What?" she exclaimed. Sarah just nodded.

"Two years ago, when I traveled to Damascus due to my father's business, I was wondering around the Souk. For their old job, my parents were off somewhere purchasing equipments, hence I took that time to unwind from the long journey. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm. I was happy. Content, even. Then, suddenly, right before me, I saw the city guards running forth. I was taken off-guard, really. There were about six of them, and all were armored. For a second, I thought _I _had done the forbidden. Then... then," Sarah's hands formed into tight fists, "I saw a man. Cloaked all in white. Running towards me. In the manner in which he thrust the pedestrians out of his way, it was clear that he was the one guards wanted caught. But, like a dumb-struck fool, I had simply stood there, watching the figure of the man swiftly close the distance between us."

Sarah shook her head, clearly lost in the divine memory. "I did not know what to do, it felt like I could not move—as if the ground itself had molded itself around my feet. All I could really do was wait. And I did, like a damn fool. His body neared mine, we were only a foot away. That is when the whole situation clicked and my brain thought it wise to command my body to relocate. Get out of the way—like the others have done. But I was slow, too slow, when I made a move to step aside. His foot immediately got entangled with mine and before we both knew it, we were falling. I crashed atop him, against that odd craftsmanship on his waist, and instantly shot my head up. His hood had fallen back, and he was staring up at me as I down at him. Then... there he was," Sarah murmured, her voice softening to a gentle whisper laced with hidden love, "there was Malik."

Farah forcefully swallowed the lump in her throat, not at all believing her ears. Malik, Sarah's love, her childhood friend, was an assassin? An assassin just like Altair? Did they perhaps know each other? The thought of them being different soldiers working for different organizations crossed her mind, but Sarah had mentioned white cloaks, arched hoods, and the craftsmanship on the waist. Good Lord.

"I first could not believe my eyes. It was unreal; it wasn't happening. But it was, it was taking place. Malik was once again before me, it was like he never left. As I recognized him, he, too, me. He was the first to break out of the state of shock and, with that deep, dark voice of his, said, "Sarah?" I immediately responded with a, "Malik?"

He simply replied with a, "Yes." At that moment, all I desired to do was bury my face in his chest, and cry out in utter bliss and felicity. But I did not. He didn't let me, no. Instead, he pushed me off, as though I mattered not a dime to him, and muttered out a, "I'm sorry," and rose and left. _Again._ Just. Like. That. He didn't bother with anything else, I was just some— some person in his way. I was, of course, shocked. Rising, too, I chased after him, calling out his name. But he was nowhere in sight; he was gone. I watched as the numerous guards run past me, shouting, "Assassin! Assassin!"

Hence that is how I know of them. After my clash with him in Damascus, I begged my parents to allow me the privilege of working for myself, they agreed with a heavy heart—for, back then, we were in a dire situation. That is how I came to work for you, but never once have I stopped my search for him. He is somewhere, maybe even in this market—who knows? I do not, but that does not mean I'll abandon my search, no. He'll be mine to _find_, to finally question, and all mine to at last admit the feelings he's left igniting in my tightening chest for many years. I will encounter Malik Al-Sayf once again. For we are under the same sky, I know he is not out of my reach."

Farah covered her gaping mouth with her hand, her shock yet to wane away. God help her if Altair was hunting her down in that similar determination.

"H-Have you... seen him? After your encounter in Damascus, that is?" Farah swallowed hard.

Sarah gradually shook her head. "No."

The only action Farah could offer at the moment was a silent nod. They sat in the quietness for a long moment, both lost in their own muddling thoughts.

Sarah had no knowledge of Altair, and Farah wouldn't dare mention him to her. She couldn't. No matter how dearly her friend's sentimental feelings for Malik gripped at her heart, she promised the assassin his secrecy.

But Dear God, if Sarah did clash ways with Malik and reunited, he'd, one way or another, come to know of her. And if he knew of her, then so would Altair. It would simply be inevitable.

She shakily sighed out, saying, "All will be well soon." Over-thinking did not help with the anxiety and fear or anything, being calm and collected would.

"God willingly," Sarah murmured, then looked up at Farah. "Do not tell this to anyone. Please. Not even Umi."

Farah nodded. "I can pinkie promise if you want."

Sarah's lips lifted in a small smile, and she raised her pinkie. She raised hers and wrapped their small fingers together. Another secret to carry to her grave, she thought.

"Thank you," Sarah said.

Farah threw her arm around her shoulders, saying, "Come, we've stalled for far too long. But I must ask, surely your parents knew of Malik's presence in your life?"

Sarah, grabbing her basket, rose to her feet. "They just remember him as my childhood friend and boy who in lived in our neighborhood, that is all."

"Oh," she issued, slowly nodding her head. "Okay."

"Yeah," Sarah said, and began walking. "But I feel a lot better knowing I'm not alone in this. If ever I go down, you're coming with me."

Farah rolled her eyes. "Here I thought you already knew I'd follow you to the depths of Hell if ever you went there. And rescue your sorry badonkadonk. And maybe rule Hell for while, since I got the potential in me. You really don't know me, do you?"

Sarah merely shook her head at Farah's words.

Baskets in hand, both picked up their leisure pace and made their way through the crowd. After buying the required fresh meat, Farah said, "Listen, I have some coins left. I'm sure Mustafa has brought new volumes this week, so you in or out?"

"Definitely out," Sarah abruptly answered. "I thought you'd know the answer to that."

Farah shrugged. "Wait for me by that bench over there," she pointed at one three stores away, "I'll try not to be tardy." She wanted to laugh at her own words. Her, attempting to come early where books were involved? Funny.

Sarah snorted. "Just don't forget about the World of the Living." With that, her friend walked away.

Grinning foolishly in rising excitement, Farah, too, turned and strode away.

Passing by a few merchants, she at last came face-face with a familiar face. Farah's grin widened.

"Mustafa," she politely greeted. The said man was re-positioning his books, aligning them in a straight line for all the civilians of Jerusalem to gaze upon. Her heart warmed at the sight of those books, and more so at the man before her.

At the sound of her voice, Mustafa, a man in his early sixties, raised his head to eye her. His features almost instantly brightened. "Farah!" his cheerful, if not a little rough, voice rang out. She loved how he recognized her even with half her face covered. "Come in, come in!"

She laughed. "How is the life of traveling treating you?"

"Ah, Farah, if only you knew the eager scholars I meet in my every day life." He sighed in wonder. "They're so impatient to get their hands on my books. Speaking of, I'm confident you share their feelings."

"Oh, yeah," she grinned. "But I fear I can't dwell here for long, I've arrived with company. So, would you please display me the new ones in your possession?"

Understanding dawned, and he chuckled roughly. "That Sarah girl. It is a pity she does not share your enthusiasm."

Farah sadly nodded, letting out a quiet, "I know. The world would've been a much better place."

Mustafa laughed at her words and turned around, going behind the neatly stocked up books. He knelt down, retrieving a box. Farah couldn't help but pad closer for a better look.

"Since you're my regular customer, I've brought some beautiful books just for you." He retrieved three thick-framed layers of yellow paper.

Her eyes widened as her jaw dropped open. "For me?" she questioned in disbelief. Mustafa rose to hand her the three books. Still shocked, she gaped at them, her eyes filled and swimming with wonderment.

"Oh, Mustafa," she said softly, close to tears. "You didn't have to..."

He shrugged. "I know your birthday is in around two weeks, and looking at my busy schedule, it saddens me to say I won't be present for your special day."

Her hand rose to rest against her aching chest in attempts to somehow calm down her drumming heart. She faced him with smiling eyes.

"You're too kind," she uttered, a tear escaping one eye. She outstretched her hands to take hold of the gifts. Once she did, once she felt the heaviness of those three books, a sob broke free from her lips.

"Now, now," Mustaga lightly chuckled. "If I knew you'd react in this manner, I would not have done this."

Farah shook her head, trying to compose herself.

"No, no," she rushed to explain her reaction. "It's just... Thank you. No, really. Thank you so very much. This means a lot to me, more than words can ever explain."

Mustafa warmly smiled at her. "Of course, my child."

"I'll read them with every devoted cell in my brain. Tell me, how can I repay you for your kindness?"

Mustafa shook his head. "No, my dear child. This is a gift, and a gift holds no value if it is repaid for. I only hope they fill your blessed heart with joy and warmth in your happiest, saddest, and most of all, loneliest days."

Farah reluctantly nodded, chin still trembling, and stepped towards Mustafa for a tight embrace. He responded by gently hugging her back, patting her spine as he did so. The loveliness of his embrace calmed her and she smiled in content. He was like the grandfather she never really had. Withdrawing, Farah said, "A thousand thank you's. Again."

"Come by here if you need anything, my child. I'll try my best to be of service."

"I will," she replied, stepping out of the cool shade of his store. "May God bless your kind soul, Mustafa."

"And may He perform miracles with yours, my child."

With that prayer, Farah stalked away and into the busy crowd.

She still could not believe she possessed three books of yellowed pages, this was simply... incredible. Yes, Farah found immense joy when gifted with ordinary things because to her they were like royal jewels. Especially books. Mustafa knew of her addiction and had simply fed more fire to her passion towards poetry—not to mention, knowledge.

His gift held great meaning, and she'd do them justice by imprinting every word into her memory. Securely hugging the books to her chest, Farah glanced up at the blue sky, closed her eyes, and sighed out in bliss and gladness.

Then she reopened them, and couldn't prepare herself for what occurred next. Perhaps it was the sun's bright, burning rays, perhaps the too crowded market, or maybe even her abrupt excitement towards the gifts—although it seemed inane—that suddenly made her lightheaded. _Too_ lightheaded.

The world around her gradually began to spin in a sickening pace, and the Earth itself beneath her feet shifted, disturbing her maintained balance. She almost instantly placed her fingers on her temple, trying to cease the effects of a starting migraine. Her belly churned, and unwanted nausea crept its way up her midriff. She galloped in air.

But nothing could have braced her for the sudden shiver—akin to the one she witnessed before leaving for the Market—that ripped its way down the length of her spine, leaving prickling and pinching sensations in its wake. It actually made her believe there were hundreds of tiny needle-like spider legs crawling their way down. Her back arched in reaction.

The shivery sensation caused cold sweat to break out of her goose-bumped skin, and nearly provoked her to release a small scream out. Farah squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to regain back her senses.

What in the world was happening?

This... this sensation— another round swiftly forced its way up her spine, and aimed her brain, erupting numbing sizzles in the organ. Her eyes instantly snapped open, and she felt her ears warm and then go completely deaf.

Farah groaned, swaying from one side to the other as she tried to stay upright. The signs of rising panic gradually made themselves known, and that was not what she needed at the moment. But feel frightened she did.

Color drained completely from her face and, up above in the yawning blue sky, Farah, despite her muted ears, acutely heard the piercing cry of an eagle.

Her attention immediately snapped up, straining eyes desperately searching for the feathered shade. As the pedestrians shuffled past her, one accidentally bumped their shoulders together, causing her to stumble backwards by the sudden blow. Her books fell from her clasp and dropped to the dusty ground.

"W-Woah," she feebly uttered through the tightened muscles of her throat, and hastily bent low to pick them up, unintentionally slamming her knees against the ragged surface of the ground. She winced, but paid no heed as she collected her belongings.

Snaking her arms protectively around her precious gifts, Farah tossed a, "I-I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—" over her shoulder to only realize she was conversing with herself. She frowned.

Well... Okay. Apology accepted, too, bastard.

Then it clicked. And she leisurely rose to her feet. She clutched her books tightly against her chest. That feeling... that shivery sensation stopped almost immediately after... the stranger nearly knocked her down. It almost felt like it never occurred.

Furrowing her brows at the peculiarity of the situation, she gently turned on her heels and spotted Sarah sitting on a bench. She relaxed, then straightened, gaining composure. She strode to where her friend sat and who, when spotting her approaching form, rose to her feet and took hold of the baskets.

Just when she was about to take a step forward, something unprejudiced happened, and literally both of the females froze cold in their spots. Their faces leached out of color and their eyes widened in a puzzled look of evident disbelief.

For, yes, amid the market's hectic atmosphere and non-stop loud rambling of the people, further into the city but audible enough to vibrate the grounds of Jerusalem, resounded the three loud bangs of the City bells going off.

_Dun!_

_Dun!_

_Dun!_

Indicating that, indeed, despite the tightening of their throats at the familiar sound, there was a public assassination.

-x-

1191, Jerusalem

Altair effortlessly dodged his way past the civilians, sometimes even pushing them out of his way when they blocked his path with their idle chatter and slow pace. They'd turn to either retort or give him looks, but all would fall incredibly silent once they spotted his attire and deadly gaze.

A few guards were still on his trail after the assassination of Majd Addin. Honestly, irritation laced every aspect of his mood, provoking him to work his jaw.

Another target dead; another admittance that went against his enemy's action(s). What did Majd Addin mean?

Hell, what did they all mean?

Despite the Templars cruel actions, people still foolishly and blindly followed them. Actions made or destroyed a man. In the Templar's case, it was definitely the latter. And yet... what was he missing?

He would question his Master and rid himself from all these indolent musings.

A sudden chill crawled up his spine, causing him to abruptly skid to a stop. He stayed still for a few heartbeats, eyeing the ground in disinterest yet devotedly.

_There they were again... those damn chills._

Then, his bowed head leisurely tilted to his right, taking in the shaded alleyway with no barriers, leading to the street opposite the one he ventured on. Straight to the Bazaar, to be exact.

Another shake rocked him, decorating his skin with goosebumps.

Altair narrowed his eyes to tiny slits, and took a daring step forward. An unknown force tugged at his body—no, not body, he realized. Somewhere far deeper, somewhere far spiritual. Perhaps his... soul?

He scoffed, shrugging the asinine thought off. What the devil was the matter with him?

Altair began stalking forth between the two stoned buildings, their cool shade enveloping him and briefly chasing away the sun's heat. He didn't mind for it also helped cool his hot temper.

Despite his mood swings, he knew there was something there. He could sense it, almost feel its trembling pressure. But for what, he possessed no clue.

The muscle under his eye ticked. He was curious.

At last, Altair came into the clearing, suddenly being surrounded by utter chaos. So many people, so loud, so... pestiferous.

His hawk eyes scanned the area, taking in every present detail. A merchant called for buyers, couple of children played around a shop, nearly tackling two men to the very ground, and a woman with two baskets sat on a bench, her expression one of deep thinking. He watched the aisles of shops stretch to the end of the street and further until his eyes could see no more.

Altair didn't understand what was so alluring about this place, hence he straightened to his full height. Even the chilling feeling abandoned him. What was the meaning of this?

His foul mood returning, he started walking again, blending into the crowd and barely acknowledging the screech of an eagle as it flew past him from above the vast blue sky. Pushing his way through the bunch, Altair none-too-gently knocked his shoulder against some pedestrian's, sending the said person stumbling back. Paying the _woman_ no heed, he strode forth.

"W-Woah," his hit let out not too far away. Although Altair's muscles and body drove him forth, his mind lingered far behind and caught that single syllable with efficiency. It echoed through the chatters and shouts of the many. And _yet_ he heard it.

Suddenly cognizant, Altair came to a slow halt, his eyes cast downwards. Then, tilting his bowed head up, he gradually craned it sideways and over his shoulder, watching the civilians bypass and surround him. He stood like that for quite a while, trying to decipher that feeble aching in his chest and why it was suddenly very essential he linger more.

The scar on his left lower side abruptly stung and burned, scorching as if on fire. It clawed at his side, hissing and whining, as though awakening from a deep slumber. He rubbed his side in confusion. Spotting a few Crusaders, Altair turned on his heels with an inward growl.

As he walked away, the City Bells gave three loud chimes, ringing out his recent crime to the public. Shrugging off the feelings once more and deciding not to squander another moment, he turned around a corner and leapt up to the roofs. With an eagle's speed, his made his way to the Bureau.

After his talk with Malik, ignoring the man's sarcastic retorts—for he was in no mood for them—Altair climbed on his horse and rode back to Masyaf. To his Master, where he'd unveil what he still could not make any logical sense out of.

-x-

**AN: **_See. I told you there'd be more. Oh, and, a little __**fun fact**__ (although you might not need it): The story Farah was reading in the previous chapter "Layla and Majnun" is an actual story from the 11__th__ or 12__th__ century. This is how it goes (not my words):_

_Qays ibn al-Mulawwah was just a boy when he fell deeply in love with Layla Al-Aamiriya. He was sure of this love on the very first day he laid his eyes upon her at maktab (traditional school). He soon began to write beautiful love poems about Layla and he would read them out loud on street corners to anybody who would care to listen. Such passionate displays of love and devotion caused many to refer to the boy as Majnun, meaning madman._

_One day, Majnun found the courage to ask Layla's father for his daughter's hand in marriage, but her father refused the request. Such a marriage, the father reasoned, would only cause a scandal. It would not be proper for his daughter to marry a person whom everybody called a madman. Instead, Layla was promised to another – an older man from a neighbouring village._

_Majnun was overcome with grief and abandoned his home and family and disappeared into the wilderness where he lived a miserable life of solitude among the wild animals. It was in this wilderness that Majnun spent his days composing poems to his beloved._

_Layla was forced to marry this other man, although she did not love him because her heart still belonged to Majnun. But even though Layla did not love her husband, she was a loyal daughter and so remained a faithful wife. _

_The news of this marriage was devastating to Majnun who continued to live a life of solitude, refusing to return home to his mother and father in the city._

_Majnun's mother and father missed their son terribly and longed everyday for his safe return. They would leave food for him at the bottom of the garden in the hopes that one day he would come back to them out of the desert. But Majnun remained in the wilderness, writing his poetry in solitude, never speaking to a single soul. _

_Majnun spent all of his time alone, surrounded only by the animals of the wilderness that would gather around him and protect him during the long desert nights. He was often seen by travellers who would pass him on their way towards the city. The travellers said that Majnun spent his days reciting poetry to himself and writing in the sand with a long stick; they said that he truly was driven to madness by a broken heart._

_Many years later, Majnun's father and mother both passed away. Knowing of his devotion to his parents, Layla was determined to send Majnun word of their passing. Eventually she found an old man who claimed to have seen Majnun in the desert. After much begging and pleading the old man agreed to pass on a message to Majnun the next time he set off on his travels._

_One day, the old man did indeed cross paths with Majnun in the desert; there he solemnly delivered the news concerning the death of Majnun's parents and was forced to witness what a terrible blow this was to the young poet._

_Overcome with regret and loss, Majnun retreated inside of himself entirely and vowed to live in the desert until his own death. _

_Some years later, Layla's husband died. The young woman hoped that finally she would be with her one true love; that finally she and Majnun would be together forever. But sadly this was not to be. Tradition demanded that Layla remain in her home alone to grieve for her dead husband for two whole years without seeing another soul. The thought of not being with Majnun for two more years was more than Layla could bear. They had been separated for a lifetime and two more years of solitude, two more years without seeing her beloved, was enough to cause the young woman to give up on life. Layla died of a broken heart, alone in her home without ever seeing Majnun again._

_News of Layla's death reached Majnun in the wilderness. He immediately travelled to the place where Layla had been buried and there he wept and wept until he too surrendered to the impossible grief and died at the graveside of his one true love._

'__**I pass by these walls, the walls of Layla  
And kiss this wall and that wall.  
It's not love of the houses that has taken my heart  
but of the One who dwells in those houses.'**__


	16. Chapter 16

**AN:** _I know, I know. Here I am, yet again, apologizing. But what can a girl do when finals strike? Not study, that's what. But I have been busy, swear :(_

_Thank you guys for the follows, favorites and reviews and views!_

_I know there aren't any scenes with Farah and Altair now (duh) but I'm trying to build up the other side of the story before the "everything we've all been waiting for" moment comes. Once that occurs, you'll whine with "when will she NOT talk about Altair and Farah?" or maybe not. Since they are, like, super-duper awesome together. Man, I love those two._

_Moving on!_

_Oh, and, if you have any questions, send me a private message. So, gena, love, can't really spoil the story now can I?_

What We Can't Have

(Or should I say, Who we can't have. Amiright? Okay, sorry.)

What We Can't Have

Chapter Sixteen

1191, Masyaf

Altair stalked up to his master, Al Mualim, after the successful slaughter of Majd Addin, and felt his mood darken. Al Mualim stood before his crowded desk, hands clasped behind his back. Once he spotted the assassin, he straightened, gesturing he could venture closer with a wave of his hand.

"Come in, Altair. I trust you're well rested. Ready for your remaining trials?"

Altair straightened, too. "I am. But I'd speak with you first. I have questions."

"Ask them. I'll do my best to answer."

Altair did not hesitate. "The Merchant King of Damascus murdered the nobles who ruled his city. Majd Addin in Jerusalem used fear to force his people into submission. I suspect William meant to murder Richard and hold Acre with his troops. These men were meant to aid their leaders, instead they choose to betray them. What I don't understand is why."

Al Mualim combed his beard with his fingers before he retorted, "Is the answer not obvious?"

When he offered no response, his master continued. "The Templars desire control. Each man, as you noted, wanted to claim their cities in the Templar name; and the Templars themselves might rule the Holy Land and eventually beyond." Al Mualim fell silent. Then, "But they cannot succeed in their mission."

At that statement, he frowned. "Why is that?"

"Their plans depend upon the Templar treasure—the Piece of Eden. But we hold it now. They cannot hope to achieve their goals without it."

Interest and curiosity piqued his attention. "What is this treasure?"

Al Mualim's expression suddenly changed, growing serious by each waning second. "It is temptation," he finally offered. Then, he withdrew the said treasure Altair failed to retrieve and bring forth. A reminder of his failure, really.

"It is just a piece of silver," he commented, truly seeing no value in it.

Al Mualim seemed to dislike his response for he quite literally shoved the Piece at his direction. "Look at it!"

He couldn't help but sigh, finally allowing his shadowed eyes to fall upon the silver. He stared at it. Long and hard. It gleamed in his master's hand, as though whispering, "_Look at me... Look at me..._"

Altair admired its built structure, and wondered to himself just how it came to be. Judging by its perfectly sphered form, he acknowledged no man hands could have fashioned it. It seemed... futuristic. Not quite made for the world mankind thrived in now.

Out of curiosity, he tossed a brief glance at his master, who was thoroughly examining him, silently gesturing a the Piece and mutely projecting, "_Do you see it? Do you now see its worth?_" and then back at the treasure.

Perhaps he was missing something? Surely this treasure, this desired Piece souls were paying for with their blood, should've presented him with something worthwhile.

Altair intently stared at it, trying to perhaps catch a glimpse of its origins, the past, the future, or the current worldly state, but... no. Nothing. It just lay there in its overrated glamour, mocking him of his failure and thus reminding him of the female who he once was foolish enough to trust.

He abruptly straightened. Where did that last thought come from? It didn't matter. Instead, he faced Al Mualim.

"What am I supposed to see?"

For the briefest moment, his master carried the evident expression of shock. Then, "This..," he ground Altair with his unbending gaze, "This piece of silver cast out Adam and Eve. It turned slaves into snakes. Parted and closed the Red Sea. Eris used it to start the Trojan war, and with it, a poor carpenter turned water into wine."

All that and yet Altair saw nothing whilst studying it. "It seems rather plain for all the power you claim it has. How does it work?"

His master stared at the Piece. "He who holds it commands the hearts and minds of whoever looks upon it. Whoever _tastes_ of it as they say."

"And Garnier's men?" Altair questioned with slight uncertainty.

"An experiment," his master replied. "Herbs used to simulate its effects so that they might be ready for when they finally hold it."

So many questions, so little answers. Altair frowned. "Talal supplied them; Tamir equipped them. They were preparing for something." He faced Al Mualim. "But what?"

"War," was the stern reply.

War... Altair growled low. "And the others, the men who ruled the cities, they meant to gather up people; make them like Garnier's men."

"The perfect citizens. The perfect soldiers. A perfect _world_."

Altair came to a blunt and bold conclusion, one he'd stand by for his honor called upon it. "Robert de Sable must never have this back."

"So long as he and his brethren live, they will try."

"Then they must be destroyed," Altair plainly stated, his hawk eyes sharpening to a glimmer. He'd kill each and every one of them even if it would rob him of his time in this world. His master saw the lethal glint in his eyes and raised his bearded chin a notch.

"Which is what I've had you doing. There are two more Templars who require your attention. One in Acre as Sibrand; one in Damascus called Jubair. Visit with the Bureau Leaders, they'll instruct you further." He stalked back to his crowded desk.

Altair bowed his head down an inch. "As you wish."

"And be quick about it. No doubt Robert de Sable has been nervous by our continued success. His remaining followers will do their best to expose you." Al Mualim studied Altair with his hands once again clasped behind his back. "They _know_ you come; the Man in the White Hood," his master said with pride in his tone. "They'll be looking for you."

And they all had legitimate reasons to why, but the assassin was not swayed by fear or the unpredictable. "They won't find me. I'm but a blade in the crowd."

His master nodded, then pointed at the object on his desk. "Here, my gift to you. In gratitude for the good work you've done."

The muscle below his eye ticked, but Altair respectfully bowed his head and strode forth to reclaim what was actually his before his fall.

-x-

1191, Jerusalem

Farah released the loudest sigh, closing her eyes, and it was not because of displeasure. Quite the opposite, really. Stationed atop a branch of the apple tree rooted outside in their garden, its swishing and whispering dying leaves desperately attempting to frame the clear blue sky, she rather relished in the specks of shadow lines it bestowed upon her snoozing-off form. The cold months were drawing close hence the reason why Khadijah asked them to completely empty the tree of any other remaining apples. Despite it all, the sun was high in the sky, providing good-enough warmth even when a cool breeze swept past them, carrying with it the scents of grass and fruit.

"Instead of sleeping like the fat cow you are, why don't you help me fill this basket with apples?" Sarah's voice greeted her ears, causing her to shift in her place.

Her leg dangled from the side as she lazily swung it back and forth. "Why?" Farah repeated Sarah's question, eyes still closed. "Maybe because I don't want to?"

Not a moment later, an apple was hurled at her head, smacking the hard bone of her temple. Pain erupted from the said spot, provoking her eyes to snap open. "Ow!" she issued, rising to a sitting position and glaring up at Sarah who was rooted a few branches up.

"Even the tree is urging you to get up and help me," her friend suggested.

Farah rolled her eyes. "Leave me be, Sarah. I've filled my basket, it is not my fault you're slower than me. Which, by the way, is obviously expected."

"Show off." A grumble.

She grinned, rising to her feet and grabbing onto a higher branch. With a push, she hefted herself up and climbed towards Sarah. When she reached her destination, standing toe-to-toe with her friend, Farah leaned against the trunk of the tree in a carefree manner. Her eyes trailed down and towards the ground. Her grin widened.

A year ago, she wouldn't have dared to climb even seven ft. high, but now she was—what?—climbing up to ten to fifteen ft. high? She was rather proud of the person she was evolving to. No longer was she a push-over, whispering obedient 'Yes's' whenever an order was thrown. Now she could tell them to shove it straight where it came from. Perhaps now she understood that everyone had power over you—if you let them. She also learned that one should always appreciate one's self and rights, because if either was violated, there was no harm in standing up. Khadijah's will and Ahmad's honesty and Sarah's wickedness has taught her a lot these past great, long months.

Releasing out a sigh, she reached for an apple on the tree and snapped it down. Swiping it across her tunic, Farah brought it to her lips and took a bite. _Crunch!_

She chewed the piece down, relishing in its hardness and juiciness, and then swallowed the piece. "Blame only yourself for eating the apples first and then getting to work."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Seriously, I think you were separated from us from birth. You and _baba_ are the same. Do the work first and then enjoy the aftermath. I'd rather enjoy, enjoy, _enjoooy_ and then maybe get to work. But I need to finish fast so that I could get back on the streets."

Farah frowned, gradually bringing the fruit down. "Again?"

Sarah eyed her. "Don't give me that look. You know how essential this is to me."

By essential, Sarah meant more than her next breath. And by that, she clearly meant her endless search for the assassin, Malik. Now that her friend received a brief reminder of the infamous Assassins, she was desperate to uncover them. It gifted Farah goosebumps just by contemplating their time in the bazaar almost two weeks prior. Heaven above, how frightened she'd been when they returned back home. She'd even slept with her window locked, earning a few protests from Sarah on how "she couldn't breathe".

Aside her own fears, it worried Farah about the danger Sarah was throwing herself in.

"I know how important this is to you," she reasoned. "But you can't keep on doing this, Sarah. Some days, you depart even before the morning birds awaken and return when the stars have settled on the night sky. As important as it is, think of the exterior. Your parents worry, especially your father, the most trusting man in this world."

Sarah ceased snapping apples from the branches and ground her with her emerald eyes. "What you're implying is that I should... give up?" There was betrayal lacing her soft murmur.

"No," Farah sighed out loud, almost groaning. "No, I don't want you to give up your years of non-stop search. I simply want you to take a break, clear your mind, and start anew with a different approach."

"I greatly fear that, truly. If I stop... I'll lose him. Again."

Farah slowly shook her head. Then, with a soft voice, offered, "You already lost him, Sarah."

"Excuse me?" her friend questioned in slight surprise, her brows furrowing. "What do you mean by that?"

"Think about it," she tapped the side of her head, "Do you really think they, these hazardous Assassins, would still linger in the city after the slaughter of a politician? Guards are everywhere, more than before, and all are hungry for a glimpse of them. It would be foolish if they stayed behind to face the wrath of many."

Sarah fell silent, and then hastily began tossing the apples inside her basket. "This is truly unfair," she grit out.

"There's a reason for everything." Farah sighed, glancing up at the crooked, cranky branches that criss-crossed one another, and then to the blue sky. "Perhaps it is a good thing you hadn't crossed ways with him."

Her friend's expression changed to one of bewilderment. "Whatever do you mean?"

"What I mean is that it can be a good thing. Maybe you'll not acknowledge it now but in the future it'll all be clear."

"I don't understand," her friend grit out, causing Farah to lower her head and eye Sarah due to the tone of her voice.

"Look, sometimes you must learn to accept the worst of any situation. Say, if you were to cross ways with him, sure you'll be above the clouds but what of him? What if he concludes to kill you off because you know of him and his beloved Creed? What then?"

Farah knew comparing her previous situation to Sarah's was wrong, but it also was to be considered. They were Assassins; cold, brutal murderers. This was no joke. If Malik was close with Altair, then there was a very good chance he'd share his similar Creed-Before-Your-Own-Mother feelings.

Her friend was, of course, taken aback by her bold words. Then she, softly, almost shakily, said, "But it's Malik... he wouldn't do that. Won't do that. You don't know him as well as I do."

Farah arched a dark shaped brow. "Oh, yes, do tell how exquisitely well you know him when he clearly left before you could even hit your teens. And you saw him only once after many years of separation. He's certainly a different man by now."

"He can change all he wants, but I know, deep within, that he'll not kill me."

"Sarah, you can't possibly know that," she reasoned.

"Well, you can't, either!" her friend shot back, sudden angry tears reddening her beautiful emerald eyes.

"I didn't say I know that. All I'm saying is to expect the unexpected. Be ready. Don't be naive." By God, she wouldn't let Sarah be such. She learned her lesson of naivety well when she decided to follow a killer in the pouring rain, hoping with every fiber of her body that he'd save her from the Hell she used to live in.

Oh, how wrong she was. She nearly lost her life because of her unwiseness.

"Girls!" Khadijah's voice suddenly broke through the tension. "You up there?"

Farah tore her gaze away from Sarah's, looking down at Khadijah's figure. She waved when she spotted the woman. "Yes, we're here!"

When Khadijah stepped close to the tree, Farah crouched low to stare at her. "Is everything well?" she questioned.

Her auntie waved her concern away. "Yes, everything's well. We just run out of herbal tea. Can one of you rush to Ali's shop and get a pack before dinner?"

Farah was already climbing down as she said, "Yes, I'll go! Sarah's still collecting her poor apples."

"Still?" Khadijah exclaimed as Farah at last hopped down, brushing at her attire to remove any small twigs and dirt. She clapped her hands in a job well done and offered her auntie a nod. Khadijah tsked, shaking her head, and glanced up at her daughter, saying, "Finish fast, young lady, if you want to dine with us."

"Yes, Umi." A grumble.

Farah smirked, looking up. "Once done, take my basket in, too."

"And toss me an apple, will you?" Khadijah said, winking at Farah. She chuckled.

Before Sarah could throw a heated denial at her, she let out a quick, "I love you!" and stormed off.

"Stay safe," Khadijah called out from behind. Farah gave her thumbs up in reassurance. Running inside the house from the back door of the kitchen, she grabbed her black cloak, red scarf, put them both on—covering half of her face—and stormed out from the front door. After a few seconds, she rushed back in, grabbed a few coins from the small _sandook_ that was stashed in the kitchen's highest shelf, and run out once more. On the way, she nearly tackled Ahmad to the very ground, causing him to jump out of her way.

"Slow down, girl," he let out in half laughter half warning at her fast pace.

"Sorry!" she apologized as she made a bee-line towards the door. Then, turning around, she palmed her forehead like a maiden in love. "Auntie Khadijah told me I had a suitor waiting outside. Thus my heart's fluttering wild in my chest! Oh, goodness, what indeed a blissful day!"

With Ahmad's chuckle resonating not too far behind, she exited the house. Smiling to herself, she began walking towards the center of Jerusalem, the Souq, where Ali's shop thrived.

-x-

1191, Jerusalem

"Speak sense!" Altair demanded from the woman standing haughtily before him. He gripped her collar tightly, his knuckles nearly leaching out of color.

The female ground him with her deep blue eyes. "Robert rides to Arsuf to plead his case that Saracen and Crusader unite against the Assassins."

Altair paused, his eyes widening a fraction. What was the meaning of this? No, there were sworn enemies, that would not occur. This female was surely jesting. "That will never happen. They have no reason to."

She nearly scoffed. "_Had_ perhaps. But now you've given them one. Nice, in fact. The bodies you've left behind; victims on both sides. You've made the Assassins an enemy in common and ensured the annihilation of your entire order."

She released the scoff this time and mockingly said, "Well done."

Altair slightly narrowed his eyes, but kept his cool, releasing the female from his firm grip. This situation was critical, and great measures would need to be taken. She had mentioned Robert riding to Arsuf, hence he'd follow suit. And fast.

"Not nine," Altair said. "Eight."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You were not my target. I will not take your life." Grounding her with his intense glare, causing her to slightly flinch, he continued. "You're free to go, but do not follow me."

The female slightly straightened and, gaining composure, looked at him with a side-grin, causing his eyes to briefly flicker down at her pink lips.

"I don't need to," she replied smugly. "You're already too late."

"We'll see," he replied evenly, and walked away from her. He would get to the end of this notorious situation. No matter the cost.

Riding to Masyaf to inform Al Mualim would definitely be fruitless—for his time was running out—hence the only solution he had was to ride alone. Malik would be informed, that was absolute. No more, no less.

But thinking about his master darkened his expression. Did Al Mualim know the nine targets were of both Saracen and Crusader? His master was a sharp and clever man—he lead one of the world's greatest killers—so for him to miss out such a crucial detail seemed highly improbable. If he did know their origins, why had he not warned Altair, or at least taken precaution?

He shook his head, cleaning all thoughts. His main mission was to stop the two parties from ever uniting. With his mind made-up, Altair decided to take a short-cut through the Souq and to the Assassins bureau.

With graceful confidence, he blend into the hectic crowd of Jerusalem, disappearing from sight even in such a sunny a day.

-x-

**AN:** _Happy New Year, everyone! I know I'm a bit late, but it wouldn't hurt to say it. :)_


	17. Chapter 17

_**AN:**__ Surprise._

_I still have a lot work to do concerning my studies so I'll just leave this here. I know you guys waited a long time for this... moment. So. Blessed are you this very day. I hope it catches you off-guard as it did me when I wrote this part. Maybe it might not live up to your expectations but it did to mine, because God knows how many times I tried to make that... scene, y'know, perfect. And it is. I loved every anxious breath I took as I wrote each word down._

_Because I'll be away for a while, I want to thank you all for all your patience and kind words._

_Reviews:_

_**GuestThing:**__ Thank you! :) You'll get your wish in this very chapter, buddy.(You'll know the meaning when you read it lol) And thank you for your review. And no it wasn't insulting. I really appreciate you noticing my mistakes. I do, too. I'm aware they're all over the story but I just don't have the time to go back and fix them. I just pray you guys get what I'm trying to say. And, yes, Farah does have a weird... 2014-13 way of speech... LOL. I know it doesn't match their time but I find it quite boring to always speak grammatical and perfect. With Altair, I can manage. But because she's my OC, I like messing with her speeches. But, you're also right, I, too, have to give all who are reading a good time. I'll see what I can do. Once again, thank you. :)_

_**MillenniumCount:**__ Thank you for your review! Hmm... I don't understand what you mean by Altair knowing of pain since the age of twelve but I can give a few clarifications. Since his father passed away when he was eleven and Al Mualim took him under his watchful wing, I'd say his training did begin very early. Especially with the story of him and Abbas going all out at each other. And, yes, Farah might've experienced pain far before Altair but that does not lead us astray from the topic at hand. If you keep on reading, I'll mention something about this content. Thank you, again! :)_

_**Blitzkrieg05:**__ Oh, you wait and see._

_**AnimeGIRL2014:**__ coming right up!_

_**Guest:**__ I know, I knooowwww :( but here you go, tho. ;)_

_**Rina:**__ Oh, I hope so too._

_**Gena:**__ Yeah, stupid Altair! Doesn't know when to use his gifts._

_**Evie:**__ And I thank you for commenting and complimenting! :D_

_**Selene:**__ No, I'm not very sure she met Altair. Altair is Syrian so probably spent his early life somewhere in Syria or Masyaf._

_**Chelsea:**__ I know right? Get your game together, Altair._

_**Formerly D.:**__ Oh, I'm sure she will. ;)_

_**Black Dragon:**__ LOL, that he has._

_**Guest:**__ Here's all your questions being answered, my friend._

_**Guest:**__ You're cracking me up! Thank you!_

_Thank you __**RaneiArchelle, Guest, lolthatsme, IkhandoZatman, c3llar door, Kyouki, Rams, Yeojehh, Raracloe, Yami, xxz0eyxx, foxxxduo, DareToDefyMe**__ and the __**others**__ for all your heartwarming reviews! So here's the moment you've all been waiting for. Or weren't. Oh, well._

_Eeeek, I'm so excited!_

_Side note: I listened to Oblivion by M83 ft. Susanne whilst writing this scene. Also, this chapter is short. I apologize beforehand for I will leave you in agony._

What We Can't Have

Chapter Seventeen

1191, Jerusalem

The Souk of Jerusalem was a beautiful view to take in. It had buildings of all sizes and designs, stony-looking or gray or even yellow with some parts fashioned with the vibrant colors of mosaic. Some merchants called the buyers with a loud and rough voice; others called them in quite a different manner, sitting inside the coolness of their stores and awaiting the customers to make the first move. Every shop she bypassed wafted of different colognes. Some were heavy with the scent of sweets, some heavy with smoke and _Hashish_, and some with expensive and dark perfumes, but with all combined, it bestowed her a welcoming sensation.

Pedestrians shuffled around the Souk and her, and although the place was not considered to be crowded, it still was somewhat occupied by a lot of people. She walked between two sand-colored buildings, watching as carpenters threw open their rugs and put them on display. "It is from Persia!" the merchant said. "It is of the finest material, it'd be like walking amid the clouds, my friends!"

Smiling to herself, she gazed forth at the two ways that saluted her. One lead straight to the open garden and the other, her right, lead to the street of Ali's shop. Turning on her heels, she went right and strode onward in a calm pace.

Unaware of the _white figure_ striding to the direction she'd come from, passing right from behind her, even briefly touching her shoulder to get her out of the way, she obliviously continued on her path to the tea store.

Unlike the other streets, this one was more narrow, so instead of there being shops to both her sides, only one side was gifted. The other was decorated by low tables spreading alongside the wall, above it accessories and gifts of all kind. Hand-made bracelets, vases of all sizes and shapes, painted canvases, and silky materials. All in all, it was an endless line of enjoyment. Albeit they could not see her lower face, she still smiled graciously at the sellers, some women and men and even kids, sitting behind the table on fat mats. They eyed her but uttered nothing.

This street was also cooler and shadier than the ones prior to it. Above her, wooden planks horizontally pierced one wall to the other, and between the spaces of each plank was an X-netted wooden ceiling, casting X shadows on their figures and ground due to the glorious sun beating upon the land of Jerusalem. Even more, green vines wrapped around the small wooden nets and thick planks, and curled towards the ground, the tiny buds on their tips blooming pleasantly. She'd always favored Ali's street.

Although she was still a few feet away from his shop, already the sweet scents of tea perfumed the air. Walking up to his shop, she calmly entered it, removing the rows of hanging beads out of her way. At the sound of the beads softly clacking against each other, the black head behind the counter rose, and two deep chocolate eyes stared at her.

"_Selam_, Ali," she greeted with an invisible smile and small wave.

Ali rose to his feet, a smile gracing his bored expression. "Well if it isn't our own Farah. _Alaykum Selam_, sister. How may I help you?"

"I'd like the usual. Herbal. Dark."

"Of course. In a minute." Ali disappeared inside the room behind the counter, and appeared a moment later with a brown paper bag. Farah gazed about her, noticing the changes in his shop. Now, instead of cabinets, he structured three-leveled black shelves that extended from one end of the wall to the other, and all were stocked with jars and bags full of different scented teas. Their strong spicy-like smell perfumed the space, causing her to fully fill her lungs.

"I see life of selling teas has been quite kind to you," she remarked.

Ali was in the process of filling the bag with herbal tea when she interjected. He glanced up from his work, and smiled bashfully. "Oh, yes. Last year, I journeyed to China and, oh Farah, that country is filled with colorful ingredients that I, indeed, hesitated to return home."

She chuckled. "I pray you be cautious, dear brother, we don't desire to lose you. Not yet, at least."

His smile broadened. "You flatter me, Farah, and much thanks. At the entrance, did you happen to spot the immense baskets filled with tea herbs?"

She pursed her lips. "I happen to have over-looked them, but their ever delicious scent welcomed me even before I neared your shop."

"Please do look at them, then. You always order the same tea, it'd be disappointing if you missed out on greater ones. I hear, from Sarah, of course, that you're fond of Jasmine. My journey to China has been fruitful, thanks to God, and I've expanded my knowledge and tastes as far as the distance between my homeland and China, I pray hope. I have gotten with me lemon, raspberry, and even strawberry scented teas from over-lands—Jasmine being one of them."

"You have Jasmine tea?" was what Farah made out from all the things he'd said. Her eyes enlarged in shivering excitement as her lips parted and her mouth watered for a taste of them.

Ali warmly chuckled. "Oh, yes. You are fond of Jasmine, indeed. Yes, again, they are outside in the third basket from the right—next to the raspberry—if you'd be kind enough to check."

"Oh, brother, you don't have to ask me twice." Farah was already turning on her heels, and walked out of the store.

"I shall give you your order once I'm done with it," Ali said, his voice already faint from the distance between them.

"Sure!" Farah shot back, looming over the baskets. Her eyes paused at the third basket to her right. Oh, God. He wasn't lying. The strong yet sweet aroma of Jasmines drifted to her nostrils even past her veil.

Farah first ran her fingertips across the herbs, feeling the small pieces smoothly tackle each other. Then, sinking the length of her four fingers into the basket, she got a handful of them out. To satisfy herself even further, she raised her hand to her nose and deeply inhaled. Now the scent was heavier, thicker, the kind that would've caused an instant headache, but to Farah, it only heightened her hunger. She didn't know if she released a sigh or moan, and didn't really care. She wanted to buy them. Maybe the entire basket, even.

Deciding to talk to Ali, she lifted her head, turned sideways to enter the store, and immediately came to an instant stop.

One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.

Anyone who saw Farah Dovaros now, they'd witness a sight only a few had seen. Suddenly pallid from head-to-toe, they'd muse she really saw Death itself. Little did they know that that is exactly what she perceived at the moment.

Frozen cold in place like a statue, not even daring to move a muscle, she gaped forth. Gaped at—between the sandy walls, low tables, under the shadows of the wooden netted ceiling and curling vines—the white figure marching towards her in a lethal manner.

The Jasmine scented herbs in her palm leisurely began to seep down from between the ever increasing space of her fingers—like soft sands—as her clasp on them loosened. They ticked down on the ragged ground at her feet, abrading the floor with their quantity. One of the muscles of her leg suddenly jerked from being still for so long, and her figure slowly began to sway.

Was she going to faint? She was... wasn't she?

She was surprised when a swift gush of air escaped her mouth, and only then did she decipher she'd been holding her breath in a deathly grip. Even that simple task of easily inhaling and exhaling deemed too hard to see through.

As her eyes stung due to the lack of wetness, Farah couldn't bring herself to glance away from the ever approaching white figure. The manner in which _he_ stole his every step, bowed his head down an inch, as though shielding it from prying eyes, and had his shoulders slightly drawn forward, like he carried the weight of the world on them, made her confess how wholeheartedly she believed and swore him to be the man she stabbed in cold-blood a year ago.

And he lived... Heavens above, he lived!

She was no murderer...

Those thoughts alone almost encouraged her to run up to him for a tight embrace. But... no. What he'd meet her with was a cold steel similar to the one in her nightmares.

He stalked forth only for one purpose: to take her life. And he would. When that reality settled on her senses, even her body slightly leaned forward due to the blow it blast at her from within. Oh, dear God, he _would_.

_No... no, no. No! Please don't let this be real, _she internally begged_. Please give me another chance, please don't let him take me away._ Just when her life had gotten better. Just when she'd gotten over the horrid nightmares. Just when... Just when there was, at last, solitude.

_Please, please, please..._

Her prayers were not answered.

Her body instead broke out into cold-sweat as he got closer... and closer... and _closer_...

Her doom had arrived. There was no escape. He would spill her blood just like she'd spilled his. Was this the day she died?

At that last thought, her buckling knees suddenly gave out from below her, shattering her paralyzed state. She tumbled down, and in the midst of her fall, her hand accidentally smacked one of the baskets, causing it to topple to the ground and on her. The contents spilled all over her as she sat motionless on the ground.

People stared, children snickered, but her attention zeroed only at the enclosing white figure. She watched as he clenched and unclenched his hands, watched as he craned his neck to the side to give it a crack, watched still as he stomped closer and closer and—

_Somebody save me!_

His body was only a foot shy away from hers and she, even from below him, could make out the scar that cut through flesh at the corner of his lips.

He raised his gloved hand and she, with an inaudible cry, abruptly shielded her face. This was it, he had at last come to end her life. He was going to whip out that Hidden Blade the way she knew how, and slam it down on her neck. Perhaps he'd swing that sword at his side and behead her. Maybe even dagger her, stab her straight in the heart, and walk away with the deed done and over with. Or maybe he'd do all of the above. Yes, he was capable of such acts. Just like his enemies, she'd fall. He'd assassinate her right here and now. He'd—

Pass by... her?

Farah's eyes widened as she witnessed him bypass her, that lifted hand anchoring his hood lower, and continued on his path—as though she was merely some stranger to him. She turned in her place and watched him go in such utter shock, she feared her eyes were going to fall out of her head. What was the meaning of this?

_Had he not_ seen her? Recognized her? Wasn't he going to kill her?

Then a thought struck her, and she almost instantly grabbed at the veil shielding half of her face. Of course he hadn't!

Oh, dear Lord! Her prayers were answered! She had been gifted another chance at life and was not going to leave this world in cold-blood. Oh, God! Oh, my God!

Now that she thought back, he hadn't even glanced her way—it was only she who recognized him. Even when she fell, drawing more attention than necessary, he'd dismissed her act like she was some unimportant fly.

She'd escaped the claws of death and was going to live. Live!

She wanted to laugh out in utter relief and parade around the streets of Jerusalem. Maybe even throw flowers as she did so. Then, another reality dawned on her, and all that zeal died out.

She had to leave. Now. While she still had the chance. Making up her mind, she made a move to stand, but the moment she did, Ali's head popped out of the store, and he opened his mouth.

"Hey, Farah! Your order is ready. Here— Oh, Almighty! What in God's happened—" his words were lost in her ears as Farah's heart spasmed and she went utterly numb, her gripping fear for the worst reawakening. Her eyes went wide with alarm.

Farah abruptly whipped her head back and her terror-filled eyes found the assassin's back.

Please let it be so he didn't hear Ali call out her name. Please, please, please! God, I sincerely beg of you!

But... no. Never.

The white figure no longer strode forth but instead had come to a swift halt. His back muscles were rigid even through his attire, and he released no other sound in the pulsing silence screaming between them. Then, as slow as one predator can be on a hunt, he turned his hooded head towards them.

At such a simple a move, Farah's hand involuntary shot up to her mouth to smother the wretched sob from escaping. But escape it did, and whatever doubt shadowed his suspicious went out the window at that exact moment.

Swiftly, he whipped his body fully around, and ground them—her—with his deadly golden hawk-eyes.

_What have you done?!_ She wanted to wail out at Ali, but instead she found herself too shaken up to form coherent words. The said man was currently helping her to her feet—oblivious at the man staring at them from the distance—but Farah found no strength to move from her awkward position on the ground and could only gape forth at the white figure of the assassin.

He, too, gave his attention to them. First it went to Ali, examined him in silence as he tried helplessly to aid her to her feet, then diverted it at her.

Both of them stilled when familiar eyes clashed with the other.

A shudder rocked her body.

He took a small step forward, his eyes still searching her veiled face for absolute clearance. She could only watch him back, dying to know what his muddled thoughts were forming in this pulsing silence.

"Farah, have you injured yourself? Could you not stand?" Ali's voice broke the silence between, and the assassin's attention snapped back at him. He studied Ali in such an intense manner, she truly feared for the man's safety. Then, those eyes rested back on her—twice the intensity.

And she knew, right there, that she had to flee. He _knew_.

"I'm g-g-good," she barely stuttered out, her limbs shaky as she attempted to rise.

"Here, let me help," Ali said, hefting her up by the forearm. "What happened to you?"

Farah swallowed, her violently trembling hands aimlessly brushing off the herbs from her attire. She blinked rapidly, trying to get back her resolve in a weak manner. "I t-t-t-tripped. S-Sorry for the herbs. I'll p-pay fo-for th-them. Here," she gave him the pouch full of coins. "Take th-them. Please."

Ali's chocolate eyes bore concern as he studied her face. "My God, Farah, you're pallid. It looks like you crossed ways with Death; what shook your core so?"

She flinched when he said her name again. Stop mentioning it, she internally pleaded. Instead, she forced herself to smile. "Worry not, m-my friend. I'm w-well, as you can s-see. Take these." She took Ali's firm hand in her trembling one.

"Farah, it is okay. You don't—"

"Please!" Farah cried out, placing the pouch in his hand. "I i-insist."

Then, her lashes rose and her gaze drifted past Ali's shoulder and at the man in white still standing in place, witnessing them converse.

Was he struck speechless with their sudden clash as she? Maybe he still pondered about her identity, or maybe he was thinking of ways to kill her. Perhaps he was hesitating to strike the final blow in public?

She instantly knew it was not the latter—maybe he read it in her eyes and chose to deny it—because the second their eyes met again, he bolted into action. She stumbled back a few steps in dread. He sported such a menacing and murderous expression, her lips parted in sheer fright.

"Sister, are you well?" Ali questioned, his face coming to her attention, and when she didn't offer a response, his gaze followed hers and he turned, facing the approaching hazardous assassin. He stiffened in alarm.

"Who's that man?" he asked in a low voice.

"Once my savior, now my doom," she softly whispered, eyes never leaving the assassin's form. He was getting close. There was no time, she had to run now if she wished to live.

"What?"

Lost in her trance of thought, she placed her palm on Ali's chest and hoarsely, almost inaudibly, said, "Tell my family I love them so dearly much. Please... brother. Don't tell them of what happened here. You hear? Not a soul. Tell them not to ever look for me. I'm gone. Promise me, Ali, you'd do this?"

In his aghast state, Ali blinked. "Farah, what in the world are you even saying—"

"Ali, please!" she directed her attention at his face, her legs already getting ready to sprint.

"Farah, what—"

She released a cry of despair as she turned on her heels and abruptly fled the other direction.

"Farah!" Ali called out behind her. "Farah! Farah! Stop!"

She didn't. She couldn't.

All she could comprehend at the moment was the intense urge to run away—away from him. She had to burst into a crowd and get lost so that he could never find her.

As she sped below the wooden netted ceiling and green vines, she couldn't help but toss a brief glance back at Ali, and what greeted her made her heart stop at the scene. He was trying to stop the assassin.

_Let go of him, Ali! _She tried to scream out. _You're no match for him, let go, Ali! Let go!_

The assassin easily pushed Ali out of his way, causing the said man to topple towards his baskets, and pursued her with an angry passion. In the midst of their chase, her wide eyes witnessed him whip out his Hidden Blade, and when the sun rays caressed its form, it gleamed a _hello_ at her.

She cried out in fright as she increased her pace, and turned to the street on her left. She nearly tripped and skidded across the sandy ground, but in the end held her balance and sprinted forth.

She panted loud and heavy, her heart thumbing in the same rhythm her feet slammed against the ragged ground. She outstretched her arms before her, pushing the slow walkers out of her way.

"Move! Move out of my way!" she screamed as she made her way between them. Some yelped, some cursed, some shouted angrily at her, but she didn't pay them any heed as she surged on.

Farah fled for her life.

Fled from the man in the white.

Fled from Death.

Fled from the lethal assassin who once upon a time was her friend.

Farah fled from Altair.

-x-


	18. Chapter 18

_**AN:**__ Aaaaaaaand voila!_

_Wow. I'm amazed. I mean, I didn't expect such reactions from each and every one of you. And the views reached over 10,000! I couldn't thank you guys enough! Don't misunderstand, it's not the views or anything(maybe a wee bit), it's just you deciding to read, and continue doing so, my story. I'm so very glad I'm not the only one seeing these scenarios in my head._

_Here you all go! :)_

What We Can't Have

Chapter Eighteen

1191, Jerusalem

In all her trembling state, she fled from her impending doom. Her racing heart would've put a stallion to shame and her her scorching lungs a blazing fire. She didn't know how to slow down, her brain commanded she only sprint forth and never stop. Just run, run, run.

In that frenzied, panicked state of mind, she thrust the stalling pedestrians before her in a harsh manner. Breathless apologies escaped her lips—but she never stopped. Not even to deeply inhale and at last satisfy her tightening lungs.

Fear flowed cold in her veins, crystallizing the crimson liquid in its path; dread, with its sharp spider-like legs, crawled up the length of her spine; panic, alike a master with a whip, lashed at her senses, commanding her legs to sprint faster and faster. Her sides, just below her ribs, ached and burned hot, her throat felt raw and cut open, making swallowing almost impossible, and her mouth was already as dry as cotton, but even then she did not halt.

He was coming.

The reality of that thought brought her the sudden urge to just stop, fall knee-forward to the dirty ground, and scream as loudly as her dry throat and tight lungs would allow her.

A sudden shadow in the shape of an eagle flew right above her; one instant there and the next gone. Her head whipped up, wide brown eyes desperately searching the skies for evidence. Nothing.

She ran in a much narrow street than the Souks, crowded shops of necessities and enjoyment to both her sides, with people scurrying from one spot to another. She released a cry of utter frustration when a man abruptly stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

"Move!" she voiced loudly, almost breathlessly, and knew by the fast pace she was approaching him, the impact would send them rolling across the dusty ground. With her hand, she was barely able to push him aside, jumping as she did so, and witnessed her legs nearly give out.

"O-Oh!" he released as he bumped to another being. She knew she shouldn't have glanced back, knew of its risks, but glance back she did. Big mistake. Instead of an apology escaping her dry lips, a short scream did when she literally flew into boxes filled with fresh oranges and apples. Fruits went into every direction, landing on the hard ground like fat rain-drops. _Smack, smack, smack!_

She fell face-forward, the fall earning her veiled face a rough scratch against the ground. The material tore and hung loosely from her face. Her cheek burned, and so did her marred knees. She released a strained groan, ambling to her feet with no avail.

"Thief!" a woman angrily barked behind her, causing her to roll around and stare up at a very pissed and fuming fat lady.

She had a yellow and orange hand clothe thrown over her bulky shoulder as she posed firm fists on her wide hips. She barked out another, "Thief!" and, grabbing the hand clothe, smacked it against her injured legs. "You think you can steal from me!"

Farah was shaking more from lack of breath than at her words as she tried to defend herself. "N-No, I—"

"Take this!" She whipped at her legs again, causing her to raise her arms in defense. "And this! And this! And this!"

"I'm not trying to s-steal from you!" she yelled out, once again ambling to her feet. "Stop it!"

She didn't. _Smack!_ "Trying to rob my fresh fruits, wench?!"

She released a frustrated groan. Another smack!

_Smack. Smack. Smack_.

"Ugh!" she shrieked, finally swatting away her upcoming blows. With persistence, she tried to jump up to her feet. She moment she did so, it felt like the crowd dispersed at that exact moment, and she caught sight of a fluttering silvery robe.

She sharply inhaled—almost choked—when the pearl-white outfit emerged from behind the citizens of Jerusalem, all calm and leisure in its pace. She immediately began scrambling backwards, jaw wide open, as she witnessed him stalk towards her, head bowed down and Hidden Blade unsheathed.

"Help," she croaked out. Nobody heard her. They continued on walking and the fat lady kept on aiming her legs, but to Farah, nothing registered except the nearing of the white figure.

A whimper. "_Sarah._"

She tightly closed her eyes, wishing with all her heart and soul. "_Auntie Khadijah._"

"_... Uncle Ahmad._"

She cracked her lids open, half expecting all three to be standing before her, shielding her from danger. They weren't. She only saw the fat figure of the lady and the ever approaching white figure.

With all her might, she pushed herself up from the ground, wavered briefly in her stance, and then picked up her earlier speed and burst into the crowd once more, the shouts of the fat woman dying out in the fast extending distance between them.

In the midst of her escape, acknowledgment of her current state seeped into her conscious and an idea was birthed.

_Wait, slow down. Calm yourself. Blend into the crowd. If you run and cause a scene, he'll find you faster than you can catch your next breath._

Slowly, almost unsure, her pace decreased and she came to a gentle halt. When she spotted a group more crowded than the rest stalking forth, she calmly walked up to them, stood still as they bypassed her, bumping her shoulders from each direction, surrounding and indirectly hiding her from view, only then did she abruptly lowered herself to the ground, witnessing many calves and feet brush past her, and, hastily changing the outside black side of her cloak into the inside, a red one, she wore it and swung its wide hood forth, shadowing her face. When a broader man strode towards her, she readied herself and, as he bypassed her, she leisurely rose behind him and walked away in a zigzag pattern.

_A change in appearance and pace and attitude_. She prayed to God he lost sight of her. But she couldn't simply walk, she had to act the part. So, with a forced smile on her face, she came to a stop before a merchant selling silks and materials, and pretended to be looking at his goods. The Bazaar was a few streets away, she'd go there and seek shelter in one of the shops until darkness dawned. Then, she'd flee the city in one of the carriages that left it every now and then, and start a new life. When everything was calm and safe, she'd write to Sarah and pour her heart-aching apologies into a letter. Maybe then and only then would she find true peace.

"Clever, but not good enough," a sudden deep and dark voice said from behind her.

Farah's muddling thoughts instantly died out, her heart stopped, and she vaguely noticed as the silk in her hand twirled back down onto the table.

A very familiar form and heat—even if it had been lengthy months since the last time she'd felt them—graced her backside, causing her to shudder once. Twice. Thrice.

"How..." she breathlessly tried to say but to no avail. Her neck muscles strained as hot tears immediately burned her eyes. Whether from the old, buried feelings of faint friendship springing forth or her fear, she didn't know. She blinked numerously. Her insides then began to shiver and shake, and her hands violently trembled.

His calm figure daringly leaned closer, meshing his waist armory against her back. She gasped at the contact, and the held back tears rolled down her cheeks. She barely stopped herself from covering her mouth with her hand.

_Oh, good God. What was... How is this...His accented voice, his burning heat, him. Altair._

He continued. "How?" he prompted, then his hand outstretched and took hold of the silk she'd held a moment ago, provoking a silent yelp to escape her at the action. He gently rubbed it between his thumb and index finger. "Just alike the time I rescued you from the gang of thugs." How casual he sounded.

But the memory came to her as clear as the day. She was waiting for him on the bench when she'd been manipulated and kidnapped. And he'd saved her, at last bringing comfort to her aching feet as he tossed the sandals at her. But how had he found her even then? How did he find her now, amid hundreds of pedestrians?

Alas, she offered nothing. She could only gape forth. The merchant tossed her wary looks, his gaze shifting from her to him, him to her, then back at him.

"How do you like the silks, my friends?" he questioned in Arabic. Farah understood bits of it. A part of her cried out to the man for aid, another part of her decided it was wiser to stay silent. For, indeed, there was an assassin behind her.

Wait. Silks.

Her gaze dropped to them and a risky idea bloomed in her mind. She could... It was either this or a blade in her back. She shakily exhaled, mentally and physically preparing herself.

One...

Two...

Three—

With speed, she clustered the silks into her embrace and threw them at Altair, gaining a few seconds of distraction. When a grunt escaped his lips, she was already running into the crowd of civilians.

The merchant's protests resounded behind her but she didn't pay much heed. No more stalling. No more disguises. She had to run until the end of the world.

When she tossed a helpless glance back in her hurry, she found herself releasing a scream. Unlike the other time, where he did not show himself, he was doing so now. He was not just walking but speeding towards her in a lethal manner.

She didn't know if she cursed or let out a prayer, only acknowledged the manner in which her legs sprinted like never before, adrenaline pumping heavy in her system. This time, when she pushed people out of her way, she did not apologize. Did not even have the time.

On and on, she sped. And on and on, she kept looking back. Each time was worse than the last because he'd be closer to her than ever before.

Now, as she tossed a glance back, he was merely a few feet shy from reaching her. Panic sprouted like wildfire in her chest and encouraged her to pick up her pace. When she reached a _Kahva_ store, she grabbed one of the chairs outside and threw it at him. He dodged it easily. She pushed tables in his way, attempting to slow him down. He only jumped over them.

Damn, damn, damn!

Running between narrowed streets full of shops, she threw whatever she could at him, thrust anything big to stall him, and, when she came across a souvenir shop, grabbed a few wooden dolls. She was too involved in her chase to care for the merchants shouting at her.

On and on, she kept hurling the dolls at him, and each time she did, he dodged them with ease and practice. But the last one, when she tossed it with all her might, it aimed him on the shoulder, catching his attention for the briefest moment.

She took that chance and turned around a corner leading to another street.

Heart in her throat, legs stomping powerfully against the ground, and her muscles burning as if on fire, she fled with all the strength left in her. Sweat broke out of her skin and her vision blurred, making her head spin due to her thumping heart and lack of proper oxygen. When she still pushed herself beyond her limits, her knees buckled and gave out, provoking her to fall on the ground in a pathetic manner. She groaned, trying to get up whilst also catching her breath.

When she realized she couldn't, she quickly scurried to the alleyway on her right and rested her back against the cool, hard wall. She gripped at her chest with her hand, attempting to ease the pain.

"Mmmgh," she whined out, tightly squeezing her eyes shut and trying to wet her dry throat. It hurt. Oh, it hurt so bad. Practically every part of body screamed at and cursed her.

She rested her head back, brought her knees up, and tried to regain back her vision and breath. Her chest wildly rose up and down, and sweat trickled down from her temple and to her jaw.

She deeply inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. In. Out. In. Out.

Finally, at last, her vision righted itself and her heart beat in a calmer pace.

She spent too much time. She had to leave now that she had her quick rest.

The moment she ambled to her wobbling legs, a figure jumped down from the roof and in front of her. And before she could react, strong hands brutally slammed her against the wall.

Farah released a sharp gasp. "N-No—"

Altair's face came into her line of sight, all menace and lethal, and she swore her heart dropped to the heels of her feet. Oh, no. Oh, God, no, no. No!

She hoarsely breathed in and out as her eyes briefly darted over his shoulder. Just as she tried to escape again, he easily slammed her back against the wall. But this time harder, making her see stars. Resting his arms to both her sides, he closed the distance between them until their faces were only a whisper away.

He was furious. Mad. It showed in the way he roughly and deeply drew in and out each breath, mirroring hers. But unlike him, hers was of anxiety and fright.

His hand suddenly ripped away the remnants of her veil, tossing the shredded material to the ground, and none-too-gently grabbed her face, tilting it up an inch. Now she had no choice but to stare into his eyes.

And she did. Ever so deeply. She couldn't help herself.

Those glorious golden hawk-eyes... it felt like it was just yesterday when she gazed up at them above the hill showcasing her domain, when the sun was setting and throwing its last dying rays at his face, illuminating him in a holy manner.

But now... they bored into hers in a cruel, forbidden fashion, cold and distant. There was recognition but no warmth. Not even faint gentleness. They were sharp as ever yet ground her with poisoned daggers. Golden flames of pure vengeance.

Their rough, hot breaths mingled together in the short distance between them; the tips of their noses brushed the other with each rise and fall of their shoulders; their chins awkwardly bumped each other, and their eyes searched one another's in the tense silence, flickering from one iris to the other. For what? She didn't know.

Suddenly, the atmosphere around them changed, and instead of the cold and harsh reality, it charged with something forbidden. Almost thick, hot and... electrical? Her body warmed up, bringing color to her pale cheeks. Farah was now both afraid and brave, strong and weak, ready to flee yet at the same time... eager—daringly so—to linger more. In the midst of this all, her lashes curved downwards and rested on his full lips. She eyed the scar that stretched from the side of his lip to his chin, and unknowingly wet her dry lips.

The hand that tilted her face up gradually softened in a mocking manner and cupped her cheek, his thumb grazing the underside of her lower lip, surging tingling sensations forth in that soft petal. Her lashes fluttered up at his eyes once more.

"_Uplashen?_" he asked, eyes still frosted.

Farah suddenly straightened at his question. He spoke in her mother tongue—Bulgarian.

_Scared?_ He'd asked her.

Her lips gently parted and, in a soft yet husky whisper, she uttered, "_Az ne znam._" _I don't know_.

He gave a short, barely visible, nod before he, resting his fingers on her nape, ushered her away from the wall. She followed. Then, abruptly, he turned her around and pressed her back against his front, his hand going for her throat and squeezing. She sharply inhaled, unable to perform anything.

The tip of his nose brushed her ear, making her shiver involuntary, and he, with the most softest yet promising voice, gritted hotly, "You will be," into her ear. Her brows knitted together as she closed her eyes, a lone tear skidding down her cheek. "I'll teach you the errors of your way, and you'll be begging for death before I'm through with you."

With that, before she could react or properly breath in air, he mercilessly knocked her out with a smack of his palm against her nape.

It was lights out for Farah, and with that she fell into sweet oblivion.

-x-

1191, Jerusalem

Voices... Voices of... men gradually greeted her ears. Drowsy, almost groggily, she forced her lids to part. Blinking once, twice, her blurred vision righted itself. Stony ceiling. Cold atmosphere.

Where was—

There was no need to ponder more of her dwelling. Farah jerked up, causing her head to spin and her vision to blacken, and attempted to rise. One problem: she was bound by the wrists, ankles, and... she bit at the clothe forcing her lips apart and knotting in the back of her head, mouth. A helpless yet muted sound escaped her throat.

Once the black faded from her sight, she frantically gazed about her, trying to find any outlet, or tool to loose free from these ropes.

What greeted her was an empty room with no window. Just the slightly cracked open door and two burning torches brightening the chamber from their spot on the walls. She lay on a cold, stony floor, nothing beneath her to keep her warm or comfortable. Well, that was expected. A part of her growled in denial. She wasn't worth even a thin mat? That... that...

_No. Stay calm, Dovaros. There is no time for anger. You need to escape. Somehow._

"Owkay, awriwt," she lowly mumbled out, fidgeting in her place to search for edgy rocks or corners. Her scarf was half torn and loosely hanging around her shoulders, her hair was in total disarray around her face, and her cloak was missing, leaving only her tunic, pants, and— she bit hard on the clothe around her mouth. He took her boots, too.

"Dawm bawsdawd," she tried to grit out. Why? So she couldn't run far?

Didn't matter. If it meant escaping him, she would willingly run on hot coals. Find an edgy spot, she reminded herself. With her wrists bound behind her back, she felt the stones behind her. None were that sharp as far as her patting went.

"—We may have thinned his ranks but the man is clever. He goes to plead his case to Richard and Salah Addin, to unite them against the common enemy... against us," the familiar yet far voice of Altair greeted her ears. Her head jerked up in alarm. He appeared to be in the next room because there was another murmur accompanying his. A man's; much deeper and accented.

"Surely you are mistaken. This makes no sense. These two men would never—"

"—oh, but they would. And we have ourselves to blame. The men I've killed, men on both sides of the conflict, men important to both leaders. Robert's plan may be ambitious but it makes sense, and it could work." What were they mumbling about? Did not not matter, she had to break free from these ropes and sneak out as skillfully as she was able. There was no other way.

She tuned them out and concentrated on the task at hand. The other man—who she'd call Man Two—might've said something upsetting because Altair's voice suddenly rose, making her yelp in her seat.

"Stop hiding behind words! You wield the creed and its tenets like some shield. He's keeping things from us, important things! You're the one who told me we could never know anything, only suspect. Well I suspect this business with the Templars goes deeper. When I'm done with Robert, I will ride for Masyaf that we may have answers. But perhaps you could go now."

Masyaf? If Man Two left for this... Masyaf, did that mean she'd follow suit? Or would he kill her here? Maybe even torture before his leave because he did, indeed, promise she'd be begging for death before he was through with her. That alone encouraged her to continue her patting. She tuned them out once more.

There were a few bumps, some small, some big, but none sharp. She shifted more to her right, searching, searching, sear- there! Her fingers encountered a pointed edge. It was not big, but sharp enough to grant her freedom if she tried her best.

Altair and Man Two's conversation continued in the other room.

"Be careful, brother," Man Two sincerely voiced.

"I will be. I promise." Altair's boots resounded, coming her direction. Farah instantly froze, her attempts at freeing herself escaping her mind.

"Altair," Man Two let out, "What do you wish I do with the... female you brought in?"

His steps sounded closer, and she literally jumped back down, feigning ignorance and pretending to be asleep. The door creaked open, bringing more light with it, and, as she pried her eyes a tiny open, she could make out his towering silhouette. He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned on the door frame.

"You can stop pretending," he said, voice stern and unbending.

Concluding it to be inane if she continued her act, Farah cleared her throat and rose to a sitting position. She lifted her eyes up at his shadowed figure, the golden flames of the torches illuminating his silvery outfit gracefully.

"Leave her to me, brother. Do not feed, clothe, or even question her. If she dares to escape, do not hesitate to cut off her legs." With that said, he leaned away from the door frame and walked away.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath the whole time he talked, and sharply exhaled. His footsteps decreased in volume until she couldn't hear them even if she strained her ears.

Altair was gone. For now.

A moment or two passed before Man Two entered the room, the shadows contrasting poorly with his features. He was of dark beauty, it seemed.

He stalked towards her and only stopped when they were a few feet apart. He crouched low before her, and she realized he was missing an arm. She didn't want to stare but she did. Hard.

He followed her gaze, then released a soft huff. "That's only one arm. If you don't heed my friend's warning, yours will be two legs."

She gulped loudly at his threat. He then faced her, features sharp and dark. He had slashing eyebrows, dark, almost mystical, brown eyes, a stubborn nose, and full lips. His hair was dark as the night, standing in short messy spikes on his head.

"But fret not, female. I come not to torture you. I'm simply curious, as would anybody be in my state. Say, are you the same female who disguised herself as Robert in Majd Addin's funeral?"

Robert? Majd who?

She slowly shook her head.

He sighed. "Thought so. He wouldn't simply bring anybody if they were not of importance. What's your name?"

"Fawah," she reluctantly mumbled out even with the clothe wrapped around her mouth.

He released a low snort. "Right," he said and reached behind her head with his one hand. Then stopped mid-way. "You're not a biter, are you?"

She mildly shook her head.

He narrowed his eyes. "Somehow I'm not convinced, but I will trust you."

He went on to loosening the knot from behind her head enough to get it out of her mouth—but not too much.

"Speak," he commanded, withdrawing his hand.

She cleared her throat, swallowed, cleared her throat once more, and spoke. "I'm Farah," she eyed him, "Farah Dovaros. What about you?"

His dark brows slightly furrowed, then, as though uncaring of the matter, he replied, "Malik."

She jolted as if she was bit on the butt by an insect. "Malik?" she croaked out, then shook her head. "Malik what?"

He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to the side. "Who are you?"

She stilled. "I told you who I am. I'm Farah. Now answer my question," she demanded. "I meant, please answer my question."

His lips twitched, and he shook his head, glancing at the floor as he did so. "Foolish of Altair," he said to himself more than her, then, "Al-Sayf. I'm Malik Al-Sayf."

Her lips parted and she slumped back against the cold wall. This was... Sarah's Malik. He was here, right before her, questioning her existence. He was well and alive and in Jerusalem—where Sarah was. They were not far at all and yet... She so badly wanted to speak of her friend to him, watch how he'd react, but she chose wisely to ignore that subject. It could always backfire negatively, and one Assassin's wrath was enough for this lifetime.

"Pretty," she said instead, swallowing lightly.

He frowned, clearly not expecting such a response. "Well, Farah," he continued, "Whatever did you do?"

She glanced at the ground like a troubled child, her lips slightly pouting. "I..," she looked up at Malik, gaining strength. One way or the other, he'd find out. So why not now and from her?

She shrugged, looking more carefree than she'd ever been, and pursed her lips. "I stabbed your friend and lived to tell the tale."

-x-


	19. Chapter 19

**AN:** _YUUSSSSS! CHAPTER NINETEEN, EVERYBODY! I'm so sorry—I know it won't be enough—but I am. I've kept everyone waiting. But here it is!_

_Don't lose hope, guys! This story will see an end, that is my main hope right now._

_Thank you for your reviews and sweet messages!_

_Enjoy!_

What We Can't Have

Chapter Nineteen

1191, a few hours East of Mount Tel Aviv

Hurried stomps of the horse vibrated across the muddy ground as it paced forth with a stubborn and determined soldier perched above it. Holding the reigns tighter, Altair commanded the horse leap faster. Demise was above everyone he ever cared a gram for if he did not reach Arsuf on time.

A few minutes passed in that hurried state, then an hour... then two hours before he could deny the restrained thoughts no more. He saw her.

At the simple memory of him striding forth and towards a woman lying on the ground with tea-herbs spilled all over her, the thoughts of ridicule and silent mockery washing over him, now clicked something in his chest. After so many months of empty search and constant disappointment, he did not await to sight her there. It was the last thing on his mind. Hell, it wasn't even on his mind, so to witness the woman gape forth at him in uncalled fright and horror, and the thought of hearing the shopper call out the derided name "Farah", had taken him aback. So aback, his back muscles instantly locked down before he could command otherwise, even if the thought of the name belonging to a false person saluted him.

But as the uncalled feelings of every kind brewed a storm within, causing him to slightly turn around, the heart he thought long dead of any excitement suddenly sped hard with it.

A part of him had waved off the idea of it being real, but he knew, deep within, that this was a turn of events encouraged by Fate. Maybe even karma. But regardless, his patience could at last be paying off. And he stood there ever so patiently, examining the veiled woman on the ground watch him with the same wide eyes he first saw her possess.

The eyes that looked God-forsakenly familiar.

As the shopper voiced her name once more, the expression that next replaced her face without doubt proved the situation to be correct. It was her. The scornful woman he dared to trust and grant freedom to despite his Creed screaming its denial. And she was there, on the ground, staring at him in disbelief as he extended the same gesture.

His eyes had roamed from the shopper to her, from her to the shopper, then back at her to understand this was not some mockery. But as she'd stood up, as she talked, her indeed familiar voice greeting his surprisingly esurient ears, as she'd begged the man to tell her family—whom he evidently knew to be deceased. Had she married another man? For there to be a family, one should of course have a child. Did she _have_ a child?—he knew those very words to belong to the one and only Farah Dovaros.

And as she'd fled, running away from him _again_ before he could voice anything, before even giving him the chance, his killer instincts immediately took over. To hell with speech, he'd give her the death she earned with her own bloodied hands. And hence he'd sped after her, his Hidden Blade unsheathed and Eagle Vision activated.

He would not lose her this time; his questions _will_ be answered. Thereupon, blood shall be spilled. The Templar would pay for her actions and then, only then, would he permit her to depart this world. Perhaps with agony, but that depended on her cooperation.

As he'd witnessed her plain, aura-less form fit itself between the bodies of people and disappear into the crowd, he cursed under his breath and, kicking against the wall and using the X-netted wooden ceiling as leverage, leapt up to the roof. He did not stop, he bolted forth barely even having inhaled fresh air.

He'd ran at the edge of the buildings, spotting her in seconds due to his vision. She fled in all her haste, pushing anyone who dared to get in her way. Interesting enough she stopped for the briefest second to apologize—as it demonstrated in the way she extended her hand in a repentant manner—before picking up pace and revolting against the force of the crowd.

She'd ran and he'd followed. When he'd jumped across two roofs, right above her form, she'd looked up, eyes desperate to catch his form. Then she'd fled again. But afterwards she'd done the impossible, almost mirroring his techniques, and had simply stopped, allowed a few civilians to envelope her from all sides before crouching low to the ground and changing attitude.

She thought she'd outsmarted him, hadn't she? How rhetorical if not insulting. She really thought that would work, and to a trained-from-birth assassin? No one bested him. In the chase, he was the predator. Always.

As she'd stood up, cloak now red, she played the part of a perfect civilian. Lightly scoffing, he'd descended from the roof with a single jump, making his way to her with his head low and body hidden.

When she'd halted before the silks, he refused to squander another second as he'd almost meshed his front to her back, Hidden Blade an inch away from her spine, an inch away from paralyzing her from the waist down for her entire life.

And she'd known right then and there her Fate had been sealed. He'd felt the way her entire form had stiffened, her breath hitching in her throat, and had seen her eyes immediately enlarge, her long lashes almost touching her eyebrows as he'd examined her from the side.

Days of searching, nights filled with restless sleep, tossing and turning until morning dawned, and orange-red sunsets reminding him of his own spilled blood, had made him become a walking nightmare. Every day his anger and hatred was fuelled by the remembrance of her face, and every day was worse than the one prior to it.

And then there they were, having no distance between them as their bodies touched and past sensations burst into a flame and lit the gasoline within. There was his chance to strike her, to corner and question her, to do something, anything, but a part of him, a buried side of him, had wanted to intimate her. Had wanted to agitate her further in infuriating ways he did in the past. And hence he'd reached out for the silks, taking one and brushing it with perfected gentleness. It had worked. Her eyes had teared up. She was provoked and internally begging for this to end. He would end her, that was promised. And yet... the blade that had accompanied him throughout his life, missions, and had taken many accursed lives, had shied away from her, presenting her the chance to escape once more.

And when he'd found her once more, thrusting her against the wall twice, not caring when it surely made her see stars, the rage within him had clouded his judgement, so much so he trembled from it. The violent part of him had desired to punch the wall next to her head, breaking through it, but he instead had ripped away the remnants of her veil, revealing her traitorous face, and had grabbed it, tilting her face up a notch until they were eye-to-eye.

What he did not trust himself to project, he allowed his eyes to. And they did. When he bored her with his fierce gaze, earning in return her fear and anxiety, he felt empowered. She was his. There was no escape for her, she would _pay_.

But when they'd stared at each other more than it was welcome, when their eyes had searched their pools for _something_, anything, something daring had swan into her iris', briefly clouding the fear and despair.

And when her thick and long lashes had lowered to his lips, when she'd darted out her little pink tongue to wet them, he was suddenly aware of the little things inverting between them. The exchange of hot breaths; the tips of their noses and chins bumping and brushing each other. The red warmth that ignited her white cheeks alike a blossoming flower, in return causing a forbidden sensation to crawl down the length of his spine, and the electrical charge sizzling with a soul of its own between them, he was familiar with this vibe. He had felt it a year ago.

It was... desire. For her? This traitor? No, it couldn't be. All he felt towards this woman was vehemence, that was it. He refused to acknowledge it, even when his own eyes escaped the hinges of his control and gazed down upon her plump, pink lips.

And right then he had severed all contact. Never; not for a Templar. Guiding her away from the wall in mocking gentleness, he'd spoken in her mother tongue. Scared? He'd questioned, and she'd replied, I don't know.

Well, he would change that.

Swiftly turning her around, he'd fiercely promised to give her hell. Hell in all its form, be it physical, emotional, or mental. With that, it was lights out for her.

Throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her to the Assassin's bureau, tossing a "Not now," to a protesting and certainly confused Malik, he'd tied her up and left her in the Interrogation Room. Then he'd informed Malik of the bigger plan, awaiting for her awakening.

Now here he was, a few hours away from stopping the annihilation of the Brotherhood.

With a hard grunt, clearing his mind off of the unimportant issues, he ordered the horse to trod faster. With a loud neigh, his stallion sped forth with vigour.

-x-

1191, the road to Masyaf

Conscious came to her with no warning, one moment her eyes were closed and the next, her lids parted. Groggily, she eyed her surroundings with a slightly blurred vision. Everything was whizzing past her. And she was... moving.

Why was she moving?

Inhaling deeply in attempts to stop the spinning in her head, she tried to sit upright. Well, there was a problem. She couldn't. She was bound by the wrists—front style—and ankles. Her mouth lacked any kind of invasion of clothe. Her head rested against something solid. Hard. Bumpy.

Blinking away the sleepiness and blur in her eyes to no avail, she still managed to croak out a, "Where... am I?"

Something shifted above her. No, beside her, affecting her—which caused her to glance upwards. Dark eyes stared down at her, lines of tension forming on the forehead and lips tugging downwards at the corners in a frown. _Oh, I know you..._ she thought, her mind briefly—and for some unexplainable reason—shifting to the character _Mejnun_ from her favourite poetry Leyla and Mejnun. Wait. Focus.

That was Malik.

The armless Assassin Malik. Altair's ally. Her enemy.

This was bad. _So...so..._ she suppressed a yawn. _Bad_.

Why was she so tired? And why was her head still spinning?

"Rest, for you will need all your strength in the upcoming events," he muttered, eyes once more fixated on the road.

_Oh, we are on a horse!_ her mind finally thought. "Where... are... we going?" she murmured, blinking away the heaviness pressing down on her lids. No use, they were already shutting. She instantly moved, snapping herself back to the World of the Living.

"Somewhere foreign," came the answer.

She formed a small shrug. "Where are... we"—y_aaawn_—"now?"

"Not Jerusalem."

Her shutting eyes once more found the strength to reopen. Even through her foggy mind, she understood the hint behind his words. "How... sweet. Are you... taking me to a place where people can... not hear the screams... of agony as you... kill me?"

He huffed, almost scoffed, briefly reminding her of Altair. "You speak a lot. Alas, no. If I wanted your demise, you'd have been already dead in the bureau and buried six feet underground, a rotting meal for the creatures of the underworld."

That made... sense. In a way. "Then... what? What is to happen with... me if not death?"

"That is not for me to answer."

Right... it was up to the _other_ assassin. She couldn't help but rest her heavy head on his shoulder. "Is Altair going to be in... wherever we are heading... to?"

At her words, Malik glanced down at her. "I sure hope so," he muttered, his tone directed not at her but at something else. At another event; a much burdensome one, it hinted.

"Then you should know... I might try to escape. Just giving you a... heads-up."

His scowling lips slightly twitched. "That is improbable, prisoner. I put a type of dosage in your water when you were in that dark room. Now, do not fight it but rest. I do not lie when I say you will need it."

That explained a lot; he'd showed her kindness even when Altair commanded otherwise before his leave. Of course assassins had their own motives behind their acts of generosity. Should've known it, but she had been so thirsty.

"You are right... I will need all the strength I can... muster, because when I do... gain it... I will so kick your... behinds." With that, her heavy lids dropped and sleep consumed her, sucking her into oblivion while dark eyes watched her with peculiar curiosity and amusement.

The assassin wondered how a woman marked for—maybe even evident—death could still possess the guts to comment at these lands' deadliest killers. Was she not afraid? Panicked? Would she beg, fall on her knees as Altair raised his sword high in the air? Or would she tilt her chin up and dare him to raise the sword higher?

How interesting, he then thought. The Son of No one harnessing emotions of pure destruction. She'd stated stabbing him and living to tell the tale, and then she'd said nothing more. What is to become of these two when one does what the other is revolting against?

It seems answers awaited them all in their homeland, Masyaf, where everything could be falling to pieces. His chest, where his heart beat, tightened and weight clashed down on his shoulders.

_May fortune favour your blade, brother._ He prayed for Altair.

-x-

_Mama! Molya, mama! Don't go, please, don't go. Ne si otivai, ne si otivai, ne si otivai. I beg of you. Don't leave me alone in this world. Mama? Don't... don't leave..._

"Ma..." she silently sobbed out. "Ma..." her eyes gradually cracked open, allowing the tears to freely skid down her cheeks. Past the blur in the eyes, Farah soon made out a land. The aching in her chest eased away, the pain throbbing... throbbing still... before waning away and letting reality settle in.

A dream. She had been dreaming. She inhaled and exhaled deeply and thoroughly.

"Do not kill them!" a voice suddenly boomed nearby, grabbing her attention. She blinked away the tears and drowsiness and focused forth. Once her vision found its footing, she made out a silvery outfit rivalling a man in black. Instantly she straightened.

"Altair," she said, eyes focused on him, heart leaping to her throat. But when the man in white put the man in black to sleep with a slam against the back of his neck, thus revealing the side of his dark face, she realized it wasn't Altair. But who was...

Gradually, almost warily, her neck turned sideways, and what greeted her caused the next breath puffing out of her mouth be one of awe. No... Surely she wasn't...

A monstrous castle—a fortress, really—towered high before her, above the ragged stones of the mountain, and it was all she could see, all she could take in. It was dark, appeared even to be ethereal, but it harboured these lands' lethal creations—weapons of pure destruction. The Assassins. She realized with utter aghast that she was in the den of the killers, where they were trained and forged into beings far terrifying than your nightmares. She was_ in their home_; the place where orders either meant the death of a soul or the survival. She doubted it was ever the latter.

The fortress was built from rocks and stone, appeared to be cold and harsh—alike the assassin himself—and had some of its parts draped by flags that could only be the symbol of this order. Or so she guessed. But it was their _den_,_ his_ home, because never in her life has she seen so many white cloaked figures decorated with sharp weapons strapped all over their forms.

This was bad. Oh, no. Oh, God, no. No, no, no. Escape. Yes. She had to escape; this was truly messed up. How had she... Why was she...

With all her might, she thrashed forward, trying to rip free from the ropes hugging her to a tree. It didn't even budge. She thrashed again. And again and again and again. Her forearms burned and throbbed from the pressure applied but, sternly pressing her teeth together, she attempted once more.

"Argh," she winced out, knowing bruises were going to form on her arms. Didn't matter.

Escape. Have to escape. Her fingers curled into tight fists.

"Come on," she gritted out, budging again and scratching her spine against the trunk of the hard tree in the process. "Come on, come on, come on. Come on!"

No use. Eyes frantic, she took in the scenario unfolding before her. The assassin had waked away, leaving the man in black on the ground with his—

Her eyes widened, hope blooming in her chest. Knife. His knife—that was only a few feet away. Throwing her legs forth, she tried to skid the knife towards her. Her toes brushed the hilt, slightly turning it away from her direction. She growled. Leaning as far as she could from the tree, she attempted once more. Success!

Gradually but clumsily, she lured the knife towards with her foot—unaware she was sticking her tongue a little out in anticipation—and then, with a swift kick, she sent it skidding to her thighs. Fidgeting her arms against the rope, trying to bring them closer to her waist, she struggled. Struggled a little more, knowing bruises kissed her pale skin with their blue and red lips, and then struggled once more. Once gathering them to her sides, she outstretched her fingers and took hold of the knife.

Yes! Yes, oh baby, yes. Grinning, she twisted her wrist a little and began her cutting. After a while, when the ropes loosened down to her lap, she bolted up and made her grand escape.

To her right was the humongous castle, to her left was a road that sloped down to a small town. Flags with the colours of red and white snaked down that road, fluttering when the wind ruffled them. Obviously she'd choose the left road, she rolled her eyes.

It lacked any humans, making the odds be in her favour. Taking the dagger with her, she tossed cautious gazes to the left and right, and then ventured down the road.

"You!" a sudden bark of sound said from a little far behind, causing her to yelp. Praying it wasn't directed at her, she increased her pace, jogging down the road. Of course it wasn't meant for her.

"The one who's jogging barefoot!" the voice let out once more, but this time a little closer.

Okay, alright, there was a high chance someone else was barefoot. She tossed a glance backwards, and caught a white figure inching towards her in a fast pace. Oh, he really meant her.

Slightly yelping, she increased her pace, not paying much heed to her soles. Just when she turned to a rocky corner, an assassin abruptly unsheathed his sword and tilted it to her direction. She forced her legs to come to an immediate stop, and they did so by scratching against the ground but saved her belly from the tip of the sword. She released a small shrill of surprise.

"Who are you?" the swordsman questioned, eyes narrowing below the shadows of his arched hood.

"Nobody important," she rasped out, quite breathless, and gently, almost slowly, took a step back. And then took another, then another, before turning and hastily running up the road. A figure suddenly leaped down the rocks above her, landing a foot shy from her figure. She yelped, jumping back in surprise and, losing her balance, falling on the ground.

The man in white shoved his hood down, revealing a familiar face. Malik.

"How did you escape?" he questioned and then shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Get up."

She did so slowly, hiding the dagger below her tunic and strapping it on her slacks waistline as she did so.

She raised her palms up in innocence. "This makes it easier. I was actually looking for you." She smiled.

Malik narrowed his eyes.

"My wrists really missed the feeling of a rope binding them so I thought to myself, 'huh, where is Malik? Well, better find him!'"

"Funny," he uttered in a flat tone. "Give me your wrists, then."

"But they're attached to my arm..." she muttered out, hoping she didn't sound as silly as she appeared at the moment. Stalling was so not her thing.

Annoyed, Malik trudged towards her and grabbed her wrists, smacking them together before tying them with another set of ropes he acquired from the assassin behind her.

She cleared her throat and said, "I swear my sense of humour is not that bad."

"Walk, female," he ordered instead. With a grumble, she followed. With Malik in front, her in the middle, and the other assassin behind her, they made their way up the road. Passing the tree she was tied to, they ventured a little farther off but did not enter the fortress or pass the massive gates. They stood in an open valley, the village below them and the castle in front, and some white figures roaming the area, as though awaiting for something. Someone.

"It seems the magic has waved off, that only means... Stay here," Malik spoke from beside her. "And keep careful watch of her," he ordered the other assassin. His ally nodded and she frowned. With that, Malik strode away, towards the high rocky surface above this plain land where a few set of hays were placed in one discreet location. As if to... burn a body. Wait, did the assassin just say _magic?_

Before she could comprehend anything, two white-cloaked figures made their way down the castle road and to the stack of hays. One of them was carrying a body, and placed it atop the yellow hay. Yes, it was to burn a body. But whose body?

Once more she didn't have time to digest anything when the person took hold of a torch handed to him and set the lying body in fire.

The second figure immediately backfired. "Altair! No!"

Her upcoming breath suddenly hitched in her throat, and her eyes widened. That was Altair? Who was he burning?

"I must know he cannot return," Altair said calmly, facing the man with black beard. Who couldn't return? The man burning to his bones? Malik had said something about magic, perhaps that dying man was responsible? He must've been killed already for he was not screaming. Everyone screamed.

What was happening?

With so many questions and no answer, Farah watched unblinking.

"But this is not our way!" the man protested. "To burn a man's body is forbidden."

"Defiler!" someone shouted from the crowd, catching Altair's and her attention. From her spot below the shade of a tree, she eyed the crowd in search for the person responsible.

Altair walked around the fire to stand at the edge of the hill showcasing the land below where all the people stared up at him. "Hear me out," he said, gaining everyone's attention, and with the moves she knew and recalled so well, pointed a hand to the burning body. "This body could be another one of Al Mualim's phantoms. I must be certain."

"Lies!" the bearded man shouted, walking over to Altair. He raised a hand to Altair, pointing as he said, "All your life you have made a mockery of our creed. You bend the rules to suit your whims by belittling and humiliating those around you!"

"Restrain him!" the same voice rang out from the crowd, capturing Altair's attention. While he gazed down, another man rushed to his support, "Did you not hear him? Al Mualim is bewitched."

When Farah lifted her eyes up at Altair, trying to understand something, anything, she spotted the bearded man take a pose that made her immediately straighten and let out a, "Watch out!"

Too late. The man thrust Altair down the height he stood upon, causing him to land roughly on the land. "Agh!" he released, but she could not see him. Eyes wild, heart throbbing in her throat, she searched the land for his fallen body. Too many people. She took a leap forward, attempting to learn of his condition, but the assassin beside her grabbed firmly onto her arm, keeping her rooted in place.

Worrying? For him? No, no. This was not worry, she reminded herself. She simply was curious. And pissed. Pissed at that bearded bastard. How _dare_ he? she seethed inside, unable to help herself. Not because she suddenly wanted to attack the bastard for doing that him, but because _she_ wanted to do that him. Yes. Yes, that was it. Nothing more. The strong desire to suddenly jab his hands with the dagger strapped to her waist was simply because he took the right that was hers.

While the bearded man fled the scene, the crowd suddenly turned to a mess, all releasing shouts and screams. Assassins tried to hold off some civilians trying to near a body, shouting, "Defiler! Defiler!" while others got into an argument over their each other's opinions, deeming themselves right and the other party wrong. Swords unsheathed; metal clashed against metal. Her eyes followed every movement, every spoken word, studied each being, breathing deeply as she searched the mass for that certain someone.

Suddenly the crowd dispersed, revealing a man cloaked in white standing in the midst of the chaos, attempting to reason and talk with the few. Her chest suddenly ached at the scene. Not because of how people reacted to him but at how his eyes took on another emotion she had never witnessed before.

"What did I tell you, Altair?" a voice boomed from a tower far above them. It got everyone's attention, even hers.

"Abbas, stop!" Altair shouted, raising his arm up in warning.

A golden light—alike the sun's—shone from the peak of the tower, and Farah's eyes widened, her saliva drying in her mouth. _What the hell was..._

"What did you think would happen when you murdered our beloved mentor?" he shouted the question at Altair. The golden light only increased, creating thin yet vibrant lights around the tower, causing it to illuminate and even effect them from where they stood.

The man burning was their mentor, and Altair murdered him?

"What is happening?" she croaked out, voice shaking and insides trembling. She glanced at the assassin holding her and was surprised to find him fixate his eyes upon the light.

"You loved Al Mualim less than anyone; you blamed him for all your misfortune—even your father's suicide," Altair shot back.

"My father was a hero!" Abbas shouted in anger.

"This is not the time to quarrel over the past; we must decide what to do with that weapon," Altair said, straightening his posture and trying to insert some common into that man.

Abbas raised a rounded golden sphere in his hand, saying, "Whatever this artefact is capable of, you are not worthy to wield it."

"No man is!" Altair shot back, cautiously aiming to make Abbas lower down that golden sphere.

All Farah could do was look at it. She had never seen anything of its like... what was it?

Abbas gave his attention to the object in his hand and he, with voice so compelled and hypnotized, spoke, "It is... beautiful, isn't it?" And raised it higher. It vibrated and increased its golden illumination, crackling and sizzling, releasing waves after waves of unknown energy so powerful, even Farah found herself stumbling back and hiding behind the assassin's back.

The energy it produced was suddenly aimed at Abbas' forehead, and he screamed—a scream of pain and torture. Then, as Farah's eyes widened, when the energy couldn't consume his already corrupted mind, was released towards the entire land, covering it with its golden veil of glory. It thrummed and vibrated and it came straight at them—straight at her.

With force, as though she'd been thrust by a thousand waves in a thunderous night, it attacked her. She flew backwards by the power of it, and landed on the ground with a loud thud.

Then there was pain. It came so sudden, so unexpected, she screamed. It came from her stomach but a little lower, causing her to grab it and hunch over, trying to protect herself. She tightly closed her eyes, her screams continuing. What was happening? What was—

Another round of stabbing pain washed over her body. She grabbed her head, shutting her ears as her own cries attacked her eardrums with their force.

"Make it stop!" she wailed out. "Make it stop! Please!"

_Leave_, a voice suddenly said to her. It was soft yet determined, pure yet lethal. _Leave while you still are able._

Her eyes snapped open, and the pain, as abrupt as it had come, subsided, only leaving numbness. She deeply breathed in and out, in and out, trying to regain back her senses.

With strength, she gradually straightened, studying what unfolded before her. Every single being was passed out flat on the ground—only one man stood.

And she knew that man with every fiber of her body.

Altair.

How?

With no strength to keep her back straight, she leaned against the tree's trunk, massaging her temples where it throbbed with force.

She watched as Altair walked past the bodies, up the rocky surface, and past the burned body of his mentor. She watched still as he disappeared behind the masses of rock and walls. After a few minutes that dragged by, the golden energy slowly waned away until there was nothing left of it.

How? What was happening? Was it perhaps... Altair's doing? Could it be, since he appeared well and did not suffer its abuse? If so... then how? When will this all make sense?

The men and women on the ground gradually began to rise one by one, all glancing at the other for the obvious yet unknown answer. Assassins rose and all watched as Altair walked down the rocky steps leading from the tower, and all saw—even her—what he held in his hand.

It was the golden sphere.

He had stopped it, she thought with shock. He stopped whatever power it was washing over this land.

The assassin next to her groaned and his eyes opened. With the aid of each other, they both rose to their feet. Even with her vision blurry and her mind still throbbing from pain, she suddenly desired to know what next would take place.

Everyone crowded him but none too close and none to harm. They were in clear awe.

"This piece... this artefact holds knowledge too burdensome for the human mind. But I, Altair Ibn La-Ahad, will gain information, will gain knowledge that will aid in further developing our Creed in ways our prior mentor, Al Mualim, failed to perform so. He was a wise man, but a wise man who held power in his hands that corrupted him with illusions. This piece will teach and educate us, and through this, we shall expand and develop and take the practice of our ancestors to victory. But I shall not do this alone; my brethren, do you stand with or against me?"

He was greeted by silence. Then, amidst the crowd, a voice called, "Our mentor!"

Then, everybody, "Our mentor, Altair! Son of No one!"

The words soon were chanted by everyone, even the assassin beside her, and all kneeled before him, one hand resting on their upraised knee and the other against their chest in a tight fist. They bowed their heads towards Altair, and in unison said, "Our mind is yours to guide; our sword is yours to command; our bodies yours to forge into lethality. We vow to be your ears and eyes in the shadows, and vow to never break the tenets of the Creed. To stay our blade from the flesh of the innocent, to not draw attention, and to never compromise the brotherhood. Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine; nothing is true and everything is permitted!"

There was the sharp cry of an eagle above them, as though confirming their oaths, and then silence. In that moment, when everyone's head was bowed and their bodies down on one knee, Farah realized she was the only one standing besides Altair. His roaming eyes almost instantly and easily caught her figure, and he straightened, his body turning towards her direction.

_Leave_, the voice reminded her, but now it came more from herself. But she didn't. She stood in place, staring at him as he at her—the moment just alike the one a year ago, below the colourful silks hanging from the ceiling, in the narrow corridor, two beings captured in the moment—and felt her stomach release a flutter.

He took an unexpected step forward, his booted foot clamping down on the ground, the sound greeting her ears and causing her back to straighten. And then another, and another, and... another. She was frozen in place as he made his way to her, every step dripping with calm determination.

The bowed heads of his brethren slowly rose and turned, watching as their mentor ate up the inches that separated them, and rose to their feet. Escape? No, that was not plausible, not when now his word was law and every soldier here would hunt her down by just the commanding raise of his finger. She was doomed.

When there was only a few metres of space between them, her tied wrists slowly reached her side and took out the knife. Altair saw the move, even saw the hilt of the blade as she attempted to shield it, but said nothing. He simply edged closer, and closer, until the tip of his boots nearly stepped on her small toes.

He glanced down at her bare feet and slightly shook his head. "Barefoot," he tsked. The assassin holding her in place let her go when Altair tossed him a look, and stepped away.

Farah, alike a troubled child, glanced at the ground, unable to face him, face his golden, piercing gaze. But despite ignoring his eyes, she could not ignore him. His heat, his scent, his pulsing presence. The way he stared down at her, the way his hot breath fanned her temple and upper cheek in the small whisper separating them, she could never ignore them. The feeling that had awoken when he'd captured her, when he'd pushed her against the wall and himself on her, the _heat_, it came rushing back, causing her stomach to tighten oddly.

She closed her eyes at the sensation, and did her best to ignore it.

_Use the knife_, a voice said within her, _protect yourself_. It was her reckless side speaking, trying to shield her from harms way. _Hurt him before he hurts you_.

"Look at me," he suddenly said, but he spoke low, only for her ears to hear. She didn't.

"That was not a request but a command; do not make me repeat myself."

Breath. Fanning. Her stomach... fluttering... tightening... She swallowed, then cleared her throat. With much needed courage, she, inch by inch, raised her head. When her chin kissed his, only then did she stop. She gave her attention to his smooth cheeks rather than his eyes, ignoring them at all costs.

Then, despite her inner struggle, they travelled down to his lips. To the scar that cut skin and soft, pink lips, running down until the curve of his chin.

"I said look at me," his displeased tone rang out, this time his breath fanning over her own lips, caressing it like a lover. An uncalled for shiver rocked down the length of her spine. Her lungs refused to draw in breath, and breathing suddenly became too hard.

"I am," she whispered out, her own breath tickling his full, sensuous lips that curved at the ends despite his scowl. He suddenly inhaled deeply, and she was convinced he just felt what she had a moment ago.

"Up here," he let out almost impatiently, purposely bopping his chin against hers in warning for her to look up—up at his eyes.

Finally, she did. Her brown pools clashed golden ones. Her lips clamped shut, her breath hitched, and she was left more breathless than ever. He was so beautiful.

So beautifully deadly.

"Remember this moment," he said, eyes frosting. "The freest you will ever be in a very... very long time, for that privilege will denied to you."

Farah's expression suddenly fell, her eyes blanked out and her lips parted. Then, before she could command otherwise, her hands wielding the knife surged up, straight at his throat. She meant to slice his throat right open.

Before any contact, his free hand easily came up and stopped the attack mid-air, his eyes never leaving her face. He twisted her wrist and commanded her hands to hold the knife at her own throat. The cold steel pressed against warm, soft skin.

Farah sneered, tilting her chin up and forming a small smile. There was challenge in her eyes, and she was surprised at her own bravery. "Do it," she said, voice devoid of any fear. Cowardice.

She leaned an inch closer, and the sharp steel slightly grazed her skin, drawing a line of blood.

Behind them, Malik watched everything unfold, amusement forming in his eyes more than anything. No matter Altair being his mentor now, he gave credit to the woman who was holding her own. _So, she was the type to tilt her chin up and dare Altair he raise his sword higher._

"Do it!" she let out, frustrated.

"No," was his plain reply. "This death will be a mercy to you. I do not show mercy to my enemies—much less a Templar."

Templar? He called her that when he'd captured her, hatred and vehemence in his tone. Why did he continue doing so?

She frowned in confusion. He ignored her expression and instead twisted her wrists, causing her to release a sharp gasp and the dagger to fall on the ground.

"Malik," he said, glaring away from her face. "Take her to the dungeon. Where she shall stay until I order otherwise."

Dungeon? In the darkness?

Fear suddenly gripped at her chest with its sharp claws, tearing through skin and aiming her beating heart. It paralyzed her.

Not the darkness. Please, not the darkness. Anything but the...

Malik reached her, grabbed her forearm, dragged her away from Altair's side, all the while she did not protest. Too stunned to do so. Eyes wide with horror, body covered in cold-sweat now, hands trembling and legs too weak to move. And yet she didn't tear her gaze away from Altair's figure.

He couldn't send her to the...

Then he turned his body, his knowing eyes meeting hers, and she knew, right then and there, that he was aware of her fear. A year ago, when he'd used her fear against her and scared her, in return earning a push out the window... he was aware of that fact even now.

And after the nightmares, waking up to her own screams every night, her fear had grown and multiplied, until her father's own abuses were reduced to baby games. And the assassin knew she crumbled in the darkness and _even_ then he was sending her to the dungeon?

Cruel. That was just...

She couldn't finish her own thought as her brain froze from all the terror and horror-filled images filling her head. Tears welled up her eyes as she fought for composure.

She didn't know how long she was in that paralyzed state, how long she stared at Altair's form, his face, then at the rocky walls, the cloudy sky, the stony ceiling before... staring at darkness.

Only when metal whined open and closed, she snapped out of her stunned state, her eyes widening. She watched as Malik locked the cell, inching away from her reach.

"Wait, no..." she trailed out in her faze, shaking her head. "Wait, no!" she suddenly let out, aware of the result and what would befall her if he left her all alone.

"No, stop, please, stop! Don't go, don't go! I'm so sorry, please, believe me! I'm so sorry, let me out!"

The footsteps only lessened in volume. No... No...

She was at the verge of breaking. When the footsteps actually stopped, when there was no more sound, that's when it cracked.

And then it burst. She lost it.

Frantic, she rattled the cell's bars. "Please, don't leave me alone! I won't escape! I'll behave! I'm scared!" she cried out, finally admitting her fear. "I'm scared, don't leave me! Malik! Malik!"

She screamed.

"Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!"

She screamed more, rattling the bars with all her might. So much so that she feared her shoulders would pop out of their sockets. Didn't care if they did. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't stay in the dark.

_He_ would come...

"I'm scared! Please, I'm scared! Somebody help! Anybody! Altair!" she sobbed out his name. "Altair! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. Please! Help me! I will never run away, I will follow your every whim, every order! Let me out! Just let me out, I beg of you! Help!"

Silence. Only the foul smell of waste mixed with blood greeted her senses. She was alone. All... alone.

_Do you want to know what lures in the darkness?_ a familiar tone rang out, and she immediately straightened, searching for the source of the voice.

_He_ was here. Her father... he was here. Just like in her childhood... locking her in a dark room... starving her... beating her... torturing her until her own little screams put her out...

_Let me show you_, the voice rang out once more.

"No..." she blubbered out, persistently shaking her head. "No, please... I'm sorry, _tate_. I won't misbehave again. No more... eating without y-your permission... no more playing without y-your consent... no going out of my r-room without y-your notice... I'm sorry, don't hurt me. Please, _daddy_. I'm sorry..."

_Should have thought of that before you disobeyed me, right sweet daughter?_

Farah released a cry of utter despair, tears rolling down her cheeks, scalding her skin. It was too late. She was going to be punished. It was too late.

The sudden dead face of her mother appeared right next to knees on the ground, eyes staring up at her, unblinking, haunting and far gruesome. Far scary.

She screamed, and latched onto the bars for dear life. "Let me out! Let me out! He's here! I'm scared! Mama, help me! Altair!"

She didn't know how much she called out for his name, didn't know for how long, only knew that it was necessary. Even when tears choked her, she found the strength to say his name in hopes he would hear her and take her out.

_Altair... Altair... Altair..._

-x-


	20. Chapter 20

**AN:** _I'm glad I'm back :) Thank you all for being patient and very supportive, I love you all the more for it. Your sweet reviews and messages are heart-warming and really keep me going. I do apologize for making you think I've abandoned this story—or you. I hate when the authors do that to their awesome stories. I do not count because I'm different. But hopefully, with no distractions and problems, I'll write and post as much as I can._

_I will try to stay true and honest to the characters and this plot as much as I can, and Part II will be whole lot different than Part I with huge plot-twists. It is not my aim to raise your hopes high, hence I apologize beforehand if dragons did not make an appearance. :) _

_I do not own the Assassin's Creed, nor the scenes taken from the game and placed into this story._

What We Can't Have

Chapter Twenty

1191, Masyaf

Darkness consumed her, spat her out, and consumed her even deeper_—_before brutally whipping at her senses and reawakening her. She slipped in and out of consciousness, seeing black... black... then a small flicker of orange. And then the burst of flames. As drowsiness mixed with nightmares played with the fog in her mind with their long, slim fingers, she thought she heard the door to the cage whine open.

She felt hands enclose around her shoulders in the most welcome—almost cherished—way she'd ever been held, calming her moans of anguish and fear. She felt a cool finger brush at her forehead, easing the tension and pain. She more than accepted it, she craved it; her nightmares cried out, inching away from her—and the cool touch. Weakly glancing up, she saw—or thought she did—a shaded face.

She blinked once, twice, before awakening fully. No one.

Her cage was empty. She was alone.

She felt cold and empty and yet... there was— no, were. There were two on-going torches hanging on the wall in front of her cage, scaring away the darkness, and almost immediately bringing ease to her mind.

Her lips parted in confusion and surprise, and gradually she rose from the ground to her knees. Who had lit them? And if they were as real as her eyes made them out to be, was the—dare she hope—embrace as real? The soothing touches?

No, she then thought. No. Surely it was just her imagination. She was the enemy here; no one would hold her as though she meant the world to them. They didn't know her. No one except— her thoughts stilled, and she stiffened.

No one except... Altair?

Now she released a humourless chuckle, slowly shaking her head. Was she in her right mind to even think that? How could her biggest and merciless enemy even dare of bringing himself to touch her when even looking at her face repulsed him?

It was her ruthless imagination, then. Screaming out his name brought her to the state of wishful thinking.

Suddenly weighed down with loss—and... mourning?—she leaned against the bars and rested her temple against the metal.

She brought her knees up and hugged herself. Even when her skin burned as if alive from the touches that were yet to wane away, she commanded herself to forget them.

There was so much to keep her alive in here, and foolishness was not one of them.

-x-

He heard the stomp of boots ascend the staircase but did not lift his head to greet the intruder as he was too busy scribbling away on a yellow paper. The tip of the feather left black and intertwined letters in its wake as he wrote to other branches of the Assassins Order across the globe.

It had been two days since he became the mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood, and already word had spread. The letters he'd received were not insulting but sceptical nevertheless. He replied to each and one of them, informing some and advising the other. He was also strategizing and planning, knowing the Assassins now had a new mentor and that meant different aims and way of life. He was going to take this Order to a different direction—with the help of the artefact that lay next to his scribbling hand.

When the footsteps reached the top of the stairs and then began walking to his direction—the previous mentor's working place that possessed a small library to both sides of his desk and ceiling-high windows with bird cages stationed before them, and where he took his order to eliminate the Nine—Altair merely placed the yellow paper atop a stack of them.

When the footsteps stopped right before his desk, he, without the effort of lifting his head, asked, "Are the students ready?"

"Yes. In actuality, they are quite eager to meet their new mentor. You have already won the admiration of the youth, my friend."

On the outside, he said nothing, showcased no emotion, but on the inside he smiled. Giving his neck a leisure roll, he put down his pen, grabbed the artefact and placed it inside a patch behind his back, and rose, facing his right-hand man.

Malik side-smiled at him. "You appear weary."

"My appearance is quite well, Malik. How many novices?"

"Twenty."

"And how old are they?"

"Six are under the age of ten. The rest are roughly in their stages of puberty, thirteen to fifteen."

Altair nodded. "Send the six back home to their elders; let them return when they are of age. In that course of time, inform their guardians to teach them the arts of reading and writing." Yes, it was a great custom to train a youngster while their emotions were still pure and had not taken root yet, but his Order would not consist of raging, lunatic killers devoid of anything civil and human. They would possess integrity, wisdom, strength and knowledge. They would hold responsible of the emotional and physical boundaries. That way, there will be a brotherhood built on respect, loyalty and trust. He refused to take away the innocence and delights of someone's childhood—not in the way his was taken.

Malik nodded, and Altair was grateful for this man's understanding more than all. "Their sleeping, training, and eating accommodations have been set; they are ready for your instructions. Also, many are rising to the ranks of Apprentice, Disciple, and Veteran."

Altair nodded. "Good. This week shall be a week of testing. Prepare the necessary tools for every rank, and prepare the arsenals. The ceremony will happen by the end of this week."

"Will you accompany each rank to grant them the prized weaponries, or shall I do the honour?"

He would have been insulted if not for the understanding of his friend's question. Malik knew Altair would soon busy himself with the artefact, hence his time will be scarcely left for his students. But as the new Mentor, he had responsibilities. He would manage.

He walked around the table and stood next to his friend, crossing his arms against his chest and leaning his back on the desk. "No, that won't be an issue. I shall accompany them and witness their skills for my own." By saying so, it would appear he was offending Malik's sharp mind and talent for perception, but his friend merely nodded, knowing his Mentor's words to be correct and inoffensive. He was, after all, his senior, and it was not insulting nor degrading to possess a better skill at observation. Nevertheless, he did trust his friend's judgement, that is why he was the right-hand man, someone to fill in his absence when he was not present, and acknowledged his skills.

"Good," his friend said next to him. "Now what of the female?"

Instantly his body stiffened and his mood blackened. Jaw set sternly, he replied, "What of her?"

"Do not play the fool, Altair. Her screams of terror shook the walls of Masyaf, even I heard it in my chambers. She clearly fears the dark, even screamed my name when I was departing. A Templar afraid of the dark when their soul feed off of it? I do not think so."

"It does not matter what you think. Not in this case. I have witnessed her acts; darkness shall keep her company."

"Ah, yes, the darkness. How considerately daunting if not for the two torches keeping her company." With his index finger, he tapped his chin in fake evaluation, "I very much so wonder who is responsible..." and tossed him a side-look.

Altair narrowed his eyes.

"She screamed your name, too, were you aware?"

Oh, how he was aware. He'd heard her throat scratching shrieks until his study-room, where he was examining the Apple of Eden, and at last could not withstand it any heartbeat longer, even despite the urgency of his pride. He'd grabbed two torches and ascended down to the dungeons.

When their light had not soothed her nor helped with the nightmares, he'd entered the cage...

He ground his teeth together at the memory. That scornful memory.

He had taken her in his arms, hating the act but knowing he'd hate himself more if he had not, and had brushed at her tensed and sweat-beaded forehead with his finger, attempting to calm her. And calm her he had. In just a few heartbeats, she was as limp as a baby deer in his arms. And so peaceful, he himself was finally at ease.

"Have you got any explanations?" Malik asked, snapping him out of the past.

He shrugged. "I lit the torches so her screams would no longer distract me from my examination of the artefact."

Malik, now all serious, faced him. "Tell me about her, Ibn La-Ahad, for I have not seen you in such a state than the time you were dropped to the rank of a Novice. Who is she?"

Altair arched a brow up at him. "We do not have time for this, Malik. My students await me."

"Let them, patience is a great virtue, I hear. And I believe this is the only time we have, for our coming days will be filled with duties and not so with words."

Altair_ tsked_, shaking his head. "What has she told you?"

His friend shrugged one shoulder. "Only that she stabbed you and lived to tell the tale."

Lived to tell the tale? Who had she told about him? That last thought almost provoked him to go to the dungeon and light out the torches. Almost. He'd deal with her later.

He'll get it over with, it seemed, for Malik awaited nothing less. "It was right after the mission with the Chalice, I recall. My target was Edwardo de Pablo, a Templar, he ensued the corruption of the city with his vile acts. I was ordered to kill him, and I had failed. That is when I met her." He told his friend about everything; her origins, her family, his agreement with her, her will for cooperation, their success, his downfall and her grand escape. Even the death of her family members. Everything except how much she'd affected him and his failure to spot her aura in Eagle Vision. That, even he did not know what to make of. Perhaps the Apple of Eden would aid him...

"The daughter of a Templar's friend, there might be a chance..." Malik rubbed his chin with his fingers, gaze deep in thinking. "The only way to make sure is to interrogate her."

Altair nodded. "I'm aware. Now, I shall ask something of you, my friend. Give her scraps of food everyday, I do not wish she die from hunger than my blade."

Malik's eyes widened for the briefest second. "You mean to kill her?"

"If she proves in the affirmative."

A moment passed in silence, then, his friend nodded. "I will make sure she receives food."

Altair gave his back a smack before saying, "Let us go then." That seemed to snap Malik out of his trance, and he straightened. Tossing his mentor a smile, they began walking down the stairs and out of the castle and into the training yard, where all his students awaited them in their lazy postures.

When they spotted their new Mentor, all of them jumped up into straight positions, hands clasped behind their backs.

From experience, he quickly studied the appearances of the new recruits. Some were in good shape, some too slim and others with round and full stomachs. And then there was the children. Too young. He was sure their small shoulders was not even the length between his elbow and wrist. He tossed a look at one, and the infant's shoulders jumped up in alert, his eyes widened and his lower lip began wobbling. He knew his choice of attire and arsenal held some of the responsibility, and the other party was him. He carried an expression that was not pleasant for the eyes of the kids.

Despite it all, he walked over to the child and knelt down before him. He put them face-to-face. He had a chubby and round appearance, his eyes big brown and lashes so long and thick, he looked more like a girl than a boy.

"What is your name, child?" he asked in the gentlest voice he could muster. The kid gulped, eyes widening further. Surely he didn't sound that bad, right?

When the child refused to answer, his hand reached up and removed the hood, revealing the childish eyes a very human face. That might've reassured the kid for his shoulders gently sagged down, his doubts gone.

"You are a... man?" the child asked softly, blinking.

To reassure him further, Altair smiled, revealing his straight, white teeth. "Of course. I go by Altair. What of you, boy?"

He played a bit with his lower lip with his teeth before answering, "Telal."

"Telal," he echoed. "A warrior. How suiting."

The boy formed a small, shy smile at the compliment.

"Let me tell you something, Telal. Once you are a bit older, why don't you come back here and visit me?"

Telal's eyes widened—but this time with surprise. "I can go?" he asked almost eagerly. "But my father... he said... no more playing. He said it was time for me to be a... man?"

Altair scowled, and the child instantly shut his small mouth, thinking it was directed at him. He smiled at the kid again, "Do not fret, boy. It is your father I was thinking of. I mean you no harm. You have my word." He slowly took hold of his little fist. "Go back home, back to your mother's embrace. When you are old enough, come back to me and I shall welcome you the same."

The child nodded three times, smile broad and happy. "Thank you!" he let out and threw his little arms around Altair's neck, taking him off-guard. Beside him, Malik chuckled, making Altair grit his teeth. But it did not matter; the bond between a student and the teacher was a powerful thing to uphold and was as essential as breathing.

When Telal released him, Altair rose to his full height, winking at another kid as he did so. The child beamed up at him.

"Malik," he said, gaining his attention. "Escort them out."

The right-hand man nodded.

He released a breath, giving his attention to the youngsters. They all had eased and smiling faces, full of naivety. They had no idea of what was coming to them, he actually felt sorry for these rascals.

"Form three straight lines," he ordered when he stood before them. They shuffled around the place, obeying his order. He nodded in approval.

"My name is Altair Ibn La-Ahad, your mentor. I shall teach you the ways of the Assassins, but before I do, you should all know your place first. You are novices, merely a fetes in the world of killers. As new students, you obey the orders of seniors. You will not combat each other, not until ordered to do so. You will not take upon yourself to wield weapons. Not yet, at least. And most importantly, you will abide by the three tenets of the Creed."

"Yes, mentor!" they said in unison. He began circling around them alike a shark, making some swallow at the ferocity and strength his body radiated even despite showing kindness to a kid.

"You must master these tenets by action, or else you will fail to rise to the second rank. One of the greatest assets of an assassin is his body," he smacked the belly of an overweight youngster, causing him to release a gush of air and making the man beside him snicker. He walked to him, putting them face-to-face even when the youngster was inches shorter than him. "And the other is the behaviour extended to one another." His lips clamped shut, cheeks heating with embarrassment.

He strode away from him and took his place before them, giving them a look at his face. He was all business, leaving no room for jests or rhetoric remarks. "From this day on, whatever has transpired between you, friend or foe, you will cease holding grudges, for they do not concern me. You are now brethren; you will train, eat, and sleep together. This is not a race; when one of you falls, you better make sure you help him up. You will be loyal and honourable to one another. You will own up to your shortcomings. Spill the blood of your brethren unjustly and you shall face my wrath, am I clear?"

"Yes, mentor!"

"Good. Whosoever wronged a soul in this training ground, make yourself known and apologize."

Everyone was taken aback by the order, eyes travelling from side to side in confusion. A moment passed in silence, then another, and then another before the shuffling of shoes were heard. A boy from the back came up to the one in front and, pose shy and unsure, muttered an apology. And then another boy made himself known, followed by another.

Altair slightly tilted his chin up, examining the scene before him. Hugs and handshakes averted between bodies.

When they've all settled, he nodded. "Now take laps around the fortress until the sun sets. Do not break the line you have arranged."

They all stared at him as though he had spoken in another language. Perhaps it had something to do with it being early in the morning and the sun setting seemed ten full-moons away.

"Did I stutter?" Altair ground out in a fierce and commanding voice.

They all shook their heads, hastily making use of their legs.

When they began running, Altair whistled for the groom to bring his horse. When he did, he jumped atop it and followed the students in a leisure pace.

"Do not be hasty," he told them when they were running too fast, clearly making it a race and tiring themselves out before even the second lap was over. "One foot up, one foot down. Do not forget to pick your comrades up when they fall."

"Yes, mentor!"

"Also, chant the three tenets of the Creed as you do so."

"Yes mentor!"

With a side-smile, he followed them.

-x-

1191, Jerusalem

Sitting outside in the garden, atop a stack of hay, fingers pinching her lower lip, eyes unblinking and lost in thought, was Sarah. Jerusalem has welcomed the cold winds, the vegetables now refusing to breed and grow. The sun hid behind grey clouds, barely even able to cast the city with its warm rays, and the whole town witnessed a bleak and cold atmosphere. It matched Sarah's mood quite well.

Why would it not? Her sister had been gone for almost a week now. No. Two weeks.

Hot tears burned her eyes. There was not a place, a corner, an alleyway, she had not checked more than three times but in efforts to find Farah. And the result? She was nowhere in sight. She was gone. After leaving to get tea from Ali's shop—whose market stayed closed—she had not come home.

Where was she? Was she kidnapped? Had she run away? But she loved the life she was leading so much, Sarah could not bring herself to believe she'd ever abandon it—abandon them.

She was kidnapped. Yes, that must be it. But who would... who could... No answer. The Dovaros family was burned to the ground in Damascus, nobody knew the daughter had survived. But if they did learn of her existence, her father's enemies, whoever did that to her family, was it possible that that was the case? If so, was there a chance she was already— No!

She couldn't think like that. Her sister was alive. She was not murdered. Was not killed in cold-blood when she deserved so much in life, so much pleasantries. She's breathing somewhere in the world, alive and well.

And there was no word of murder in the city, no rumours, she'd know because her friends were the main collectors of fresh gossip. Although she did not partake in the act, she had listened for any news related to abduction or killing. She had come up empty. But she could be always killed in another city. Don't think like that! she snapped at herself.

But if there was anything, even the smallest clue, Sarah would find a way to grab the moon from the sky and gift it to the person responsible for such splendid news.

"Sarah? Could you come inside here?" her mother's voice resounded from the kitchen.

Wiping at her eyes and straightening her spine, she jumped down from the hay and began walking towards the house.

"Yes,_ umi_?" she questioned when she poked her head in from the entrance. Her mother was cooking dinner, cutting vegetables and meat. At the sound of her voice, she gazed at her daughter and smiled softly. "Could you please go to the market and get more rice? It seems we are running short."

Her mother, a woman who was not so easily distressed and was always positive, now had lines of exhaustion abrading her forehead and the sides of her lips. Worry constantly shone from her eyes, and Sarah knew her _umi_ prayed for Farah every night—because she'd hear her cries of mercy until her own chamber.

Sarah forced a smile, nodding. "Okay, I'll be back. Promise." Kissing her mother on the cheek, she grabbed her cloak, some coins, and went out of the house. Before even reaching the gates, she spotted her father mounting down his horse, hat in one hand. She immediately halted, breath hitching in her throat. With expectant eyes, she watched her father approach their house.

When he glanced up, his expression daunted and solemn, she knew the answer to her expectancy even before he shook his head gravely. Glancing down, she nodded, and bypassed him.

"Sarah..." he began behind her. She instantly turned around, forcing yet another smile. "It's alright, _baba_. We will find her."

He was silent for a few seconds before slowly nodding and turning around to go into the house. When the door closed behind him, she swallowed down the tears and began to walk to the market. Her father had been going out into the streets of Jerusalem, spreading word of a lost girl, describing her appearance and asking around if anybody has seen her. He always returned in the negative.

Farah couldn't have disappeared into thin air; someone, at least one soul, should have seen the act—if she was kidnapped, that is. But when she thought that, only one person came to her mind: Ali. He should know something. Anything. He was the last person Farah went to, but he, too, was nowhere in sight. After her disappearance, he had also closed down his shop and it had not opened since.

Sarah narrowed her eyes. Yes, she thought to herself, he did know something. It wasn't his typical season to go abroad fishing for new tea-herbs. That time was in the first month after twelve full moons. That man, if ever he fell into her hands, she would rip the answer out of his guts with her bare hands if he refused to cooperate, she decided.

Strolling into the market, not bothering to move her shoulder out of the way and rudely bumping into people that bypassed her, she went searching for rice merchants. After a few minutes of walking, she came across one and sighed out in relief.

"How may I be of assistance?" he asked.

"I'd like a kilogram of rice, please. White rice, that is. Thank you."

He nodded, sliding the rice into a brown package and rolling the paper in a unique fashion so as to not let it fall or rip free from the pressure. As he did so, Sarah looked about her, eyes searching for a familiar female figure. She sighed when she couldn't spot anyone alike her.

"—haven't you heard? I can purchase his house if I wish to—"

"—poor Rashid, he boasts but his words are empty—"

Male laughter.

That particular conversation caught Sarah's attention, and she, on instinct, followed the sounds. When her eyes spotted three males conversing with a merchant, all laughs and chatter, her eyes narrowed.

The second one in the middle looked... quite... The first male suddenly stepped aside, giving her a full view of the second man's persona.

Her narrowed eyes instantly widened, her insides immediately scorched with anger.

There, right before her wide eyes, was none other than Ali.

"Miss, here is your order," the merchant said beside her, but she tuned him out.

God was merciful, wasn't He? Ali was going to die tonight.

"Ah, Miss?" the man said again, this time louder, catching the attention of the men that were only a few feet away.

When Ali's chatter ceased and he glanced at her direction, his once carefree expression dropped and in its place was dread. He paled right before her eyes.

Guilty. He was guilty of something, she concluded.

She grabbed the rice, paid the merchant his due, and began walking towards her target, all the while keeping eye contact with him.

He whispered something to his friends and started walking away. Her mouth snapped open. He did not!

"Ali!" she shouted angrily behind him, fastening her own pace when he increased his. He didn't look back at her. "Ali, don't you dare walk away from me!"

She ran up to him, and tugged the back of his black tunic. He toppled backwards but did not fall. She wished he did!

"Sarah, please," he said.

"Don't Sarah please me, you liar!" She punched his chest, and then pointed an accusing finger at him.

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly! I understand that you know something and you've been keeping it from us!"

"Whatever do you mean?" he faked ignorance.

That fuelled her anger. "Agh!" she let out and, dropping the package of rice to the floor, grabbed him by the collars and tugged him close so they were face-to-face. He struggled for release but she didn't allow it. "Look at me, you peasant. Look at me!"

And he did, gulping as he did so.

"Does my face look like I'm joking with you? Where is she?" she questioned with trembling anger.

Ali shook his head, closing his eyes. "I don't know—"

"Where is she?!"

Ali ripped free from her hold, shouting, "Look, I don't know, okay? I really don't!"

Sarah was breathing hard and fast, her infamous temper getting the best of her. "But you know something, don't you?"

"Sarah—" he began, scratching the back of his head.

"Answer me, Ali. Now. Or so God help me I'll rip those little strands of black hair right out of your scalp!"

He paled, because whoever knew Sarah knew that she did not make empty threats. She would rip each strand out until he looked like a featherless chicken.

Deep breathe in, deep breathe out, he began saying, "Don't get involved, Sarah. The man that took her..."

The man that took her. Her eyes widened. She really was kidnapped! And Ali said nothing of this for almost two weeks? When her mother prayed for Farah's safety every night, when her father went out in search for his adopted daughter, coming home with a heavy heart when he could not, and all the while this bastard had such vital information? Anger boiled into frustration until she was seething on the inside, ready to claw out his eyes. And tongue.

"Don't get involved?" she gritted out, almost snarling. "You better watch your mouth the next time you open it."

He paled even further at her threat.

"Tell me. Now. Tell me everything or I will make promise to both of my threats."

"'Okay," he rushed out, palms up, nodding. "Alright. I will tell you of everything that I have witnessed."

Sarah nodded, listening.

"After she came to my shop for tea, I informed her that I had gotten her favourite type—Jasmine scented herbs. She went outside to inspect it for herself and when I came outside to hand her the order, I found her on the floor, looking at a man a few feet away."

Sarah frowned. "A man? What sort of man?"

"Well, I don't really know, but he appeared— no, was, lethal. He wore some kind of special white robe with weapons and daggers strapped all over him. He, he, uh, had this odd craftsmanship on his waist. And had a hood on. Yes! An arched hood, shielding his face. Farah seemed to be terribly afraid of him for she was as white as chalk, swear on my life. When I aided her to her feet, she told me to tell you guys that she loved you very deeply and that you shouldn't look for her. I tried speaking sense to her but she began to run away, and the man ran after her. I also tried to stop him but to no avail, he bested me. Quite easily so, I shamefully admit. But then looking at him and..."

Sarah stopped listening to him, her face growing paler and paler. She stumbled back in shock. In absolute disbelief.

_A white robe. An odd craftsmanship on his waist with daggers and weapons of all sorts. An arched hood._ She knew and saw a man who wore something of that sort not that long ago. Oh, dear God...

An _Assassin?_ her mouth opened in bewilderment, and she covered it with her shaking hand.

But how could that be... how was that possible... this didn't make any sense? What relevance did they have with Farah, or she with them? Was she their target for all reasons unknown to her? Or had Farah known all along? If so, why had she not told her? When were they acquainted? What was the meaning of all this?

But most of all, knowing of the Assassins nature, was she _still_ alive?

"Oh, God," Sarah rasped out, her throat tightening. Her eyes were wide when she faced Ali. "I must... go." She grabbed the package of rice from the floor.

He frowned at her. "Sarah... no. Wait. Do not involve yourself in this messy busy! Think of your parents!"

But she was already walking away, mind and heart storming with emotions and ten types of different kinds of worry.

"Oh, Farah... Farah... What have you gotten yourself into?" she muttered as she raced home, back to her parents. She burst into the house, scaring her mother, and dropped the package to the floor.

"My God, child, be calm!" she scolded her daughter.

"Umi! Baba!" Sarah croaked out, breathless and dying for water. She rushed to the kitchen and drank three cups of water, then rushed up to her room, stuffing all her clothes and whatever came in contact with her hand into her travelling bag. She stomped down the stairs, going into the kitchen once more to get scraps and its and bits of pieces of food and stuffing it into her bag.

"What in God's name are you doing?!" her mother asked, walking into the kitchen.

"Sarah, what is wrong?" her father came in behind her mother.

She tossed them a look, briefly pausing in her work. "I'm leaving."

"Where?!" her mother exclaimed. "Child, come to your senses!"

"No, umi! I know where Farah is!" she shot back.

They both stilled at her words. Then, her father, "Sarah, where is she? How did you—"

"Or I think I know where she is," she interjected. "I will find out. I need your horse, baba."

She made way to the door, walking over to the barn and freeing her father's horse. Her mother and father run into the barn right after her.

"Be clear, Sarah!" her father barked. Then, slowly, gently, asked. "Where is she? How did you learn of this?"

She put the saddle atop the black horse, and strapped it secure. Then she placed her travelling bag, tying it secure to the side of the saddle with a rope.

"Ali. He told me of what had happened."

"What had happened?" they both echoed in unison.

"Oh, God have mercy," her mother rested her palm against her forehead in impatience.

"Be calm, wife," her father reassured her. Then, to her, he directed, "What happened?"

Sarah climbed up on the horse, seating herself comfortably. "I myself yet to discover, baba." She said instead of the whole truth. If she told them that Farah was kidnapped and by an assassin at that, they would lose it and refuse to let her go. And she really needed to go.

"But how do you—"

"Baba, I will find her. I shall have a trail on her soon. I will bring her back, just please don't detain me from this. Please, baba," Sarah begged.

"Okay, just let me come with you," he said.

"No," she interjected. "No, stay with umi. You can't leave her nor can she. You have business here. I will be safe. I promise. But now I have to go."

Her father rubbed his face with his hand numerously before he nodded. "Okay, sweetheart. Alright. Just be safe, and bring your sister home."

Sarah nodded, forming a small smile.

"What?!" her mother exclaimed beside her husband. "Leave? Are you letting your daughter leave again? But how will she eat? No, I won't allow it. No!"

"Umi, please," Sarah pleaded. "I will eat good, I promise that as well. You have taught me to cook, remember?"

"Do not worry, wife. She had been away from us a year ago and turned out to be responsible. Also," he turned to her, taking out a pouch filled with coins and, grabbing her hand, putting it in her clasp. "Here is some money. Be safe and use it wisely."

"Alright, I will," she said, putting the pouch inside her bag. She faced her parents, love in her eyes. "I love you, baba... umi. I must go."

She whistled for the horse to start walking out of the barn, and her mother and father followed suit. Her mother took hold of her hand, grabbing Sarah's attention, and placed kisses on her open palm, saying, "You will come back, yes? I can't lose you."

Her eyes welled up in tears, and Sarah nodded. "Of course, how could I leave you alone?" Smiling and giving her mother's hand a firm squeeze, she broke off the contact and, tossing her father a reassuring look, grabbed the reigns and jerked it, commanding the horse to run.

With a loud neigh, it bolted into action, leaping across the streets of Jerusalem and speeding straight towards the foreign lands.

She felt dread. An impending doom, and had a bad feeling about her sister's current situation.

_I will find you_, Sarah promised herself. _Like umi cannot lose me, I, too, cannot lose you._

-x-

1191, Masyaf

Altair stared down at his untouched food, one hand holding a goblet of wine and the other resting on his lap. He sat at a table with his students enjoying the feast bestowed upon them. This whole week had consisted of numerous tests and turmoil, and to his satisfaction, many rose to honourable ranks. That was the sole reason they were all having a feast after an exhausting week of hard-work and, at last, success. Even those who failed to succeed sat amongst them, eyes filled with merry if not a little disappointment. They would try again—harder this time. It will gain them victory.

Cheers, laughter and toasts echoed across the dining hall, saturating the air with enthusiasm and... tranquillity almost. Many exchanged jokes between them, many a word, but when it came to the head of the long table, to where the mentor sat, hood down and eyes taking in the scenery before him, it seemed the chatter and laughter ended there. Only his part of the table, where he alone sat, did not partake in the conversation and activity. Whosoever chanced a glance at him would actually hear the silence seeping from him.

Despite his expression carrying a gentle tug of a smile at his lips, his eyes, no matter their examination, deemed to be lost in thought. His mind was elsewhere—at a very provoking realm where only vengeance roamed. Yes, he was deeply thinking of the female locked in the dungeon underground, and toying with the idea of finally paying her a visit. It wouldn't be a pleasant one, that was guaranteed. He would soothe the rage inside once and for all—the rage she left igniting.

Slowly, the hand on his lap reached for one of the daggers sheathed inside the belt hugging his waist, and withdrew it. Beside him, sitting to his right, was Malik, and his eyes caught the movement. He frowned and gave Altair a look of question. He did not pay his friend any heed as he, drowning the contents in his goblet down his throat, rose from the table and began walking out of the dining hall, booms of chatter and laughter echoing behind him and soon dying out.

He ascended down the stony stairs, the sound of his boots stomping filling the silence, and took a few turns around the castle before he stood stationed next to a much narrow and steep stairway curving downwards, straight into the dungeons.

Lanterns lightened the way down with their ongoing fire, casting shadows on the stony, dark walls, and a cold wind blew up from the heart of the prison below, enveloping him. With a stoic expression, he swung his hood forth, and began ascending down the stairway.

It spiralled down, down, _dooown_ until, eventually, it curved to a stop. His pace was gradual, unreadable even, as he bypassed many prison cells, his eyes focused only at the two torches casting lights of reassurance at a cell stationed in the middle. That would change.

He trod towards it and, once he reached his destination, he cast a sideways glance inside the cell, and in one of the corners, made out the huddled body of the sleeping female.

Grabbing one of the keys hanging in his keychain strapped to his waist, he unlocked the cell, parted the gate wide open, and calmly stepped inside.

-x-

Farah lay in the cold, hugging herself and, when it was not enough, drawing her knees closer to her stomach to save heat. The torches did nothing to tame the cold gushing in from between the small rocky crevices of the castle walls, attacking fragile human skin. Especially at night.

Her muddied toes where numb from the frosting cold, and her skin was hard and stiff. She had cramps every few minutes, torturing her and making her use her long hair as a thin blanket. She didn't ever think she'd use that sentence in her life, but desperate calls call for desperate measures, it appeared.

The nightmares shied away from her—for now. The light from the torches was of great aid, but it could only give her so much. And then there was the hunger.

Oh, the hunger, she almost released a tortured sound. Wait, she did release it.

Even when Malik got scraps of food to her every day—no conversation taking place between them for he refused to even converse—she'd swallow down the small morsel of food without even chewing it properly, awaiting for more and then finding out that no more would come, would then regret her decision. I should always savour it, she'd say to herself, but would end up betraying herself as always when she sighted the food in Malik's hands.

It has been days—years? An eternity?—since she had seen daylight. She missed the sun so much actual tears were pricking at her eyes. If only she could bathe in its warmth, if only it could heat her skin and make this terrible cold go away. If only... if only...

She felt so weak, so filled with fatigue and drowsiness, she couldn't stand for more than a few minutes on her feet anymore. And she was hungry, oh so hungry. Every minute, every heartbeat of the hour, she was yearning for a good meal. She could, even right now, feel her stomach turning in on itself from famishment.

She missed her auntie's cooking so much. Oh, Khadijah! She moaned out in mourning. She missed Ahmad, Sarah, even the horses—no matter them giving her a hard with their dumps—so terribly much, the pain of it far surpassed the pain of the cold, hunger, and even the nightmares. The loneliness. The fear.

Every night, covering her face with her hands, she'd sob in the silence. And every night, she'd fall asleep crying, knowing she would no longer see them again, hear their voices again, feel the warmth of their hugs again...

"Oh, God," she sobbed out, unable to stop herself, and witnessed hot tears stream down her face. She tasted their saltiness, their bitterness, and sobbed out more. "I miss you so much," she whispered out, talking to no one in particular but admitting the feeling was so strong, it forced itself out of her mouth. "I m-miss you so very much."

And with that, she slowly fell asleep, too weary to do anything.

The sudden whining of a metal door opening snapped her out of her light sleep, and she realized the tears had already dried on her cheeks.

With a sharp gasp, she turned around, and saw a man stand at the entrance of her cell.

She swallowed down the bile and, squinting her eyes, gradually rose to a sitting position. When the blur in her eyes waned after each forceful blinking, Farah at last realized who, exactly, towered before her.

It felt as though she was struck by lightening.

With another sharp gasp, this one much hoarse, she leapt up to her feet—and instantly regretted the action. Her vision blacked out and she stumbled on her feet, barely saving herself from falling on the ground by latching onto one of the bars.

Then, straightening her spine, breathing in and out, in and out, she slowly faced her captor.

He watched her with an unreadable look—she had never seen it before. But what did she know after only spending a week with him? Not him, that was for sure—and it scared her. It really did.

They exchanged glances in the pulsing silence, and she opened her mouth to say something, had no clue of what to utter, and closed it. When she looked at him, at his orange-white robe being effected by the fire of the torches dancing behind him, half of his face remained shadowed. Then, gradually, her eyes dropped to his hands, and she immediately pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth to stop a strangled sound from escaping.

She saw the dagger he held, its sharp steel gleaming in the fire-light. She raised her eyes back at him, at his face, and, in a low voice, asked, "Are... going to kill me?"

A beat of silence. Then, "Yes" came the answer.

She stumbled back from the blow of that single word, and her back hit the rough, hard wall. He might've as well ripped her heart out in the process.

"Take this as my sample of mercy."

How calm he sounded. How uncaring. But she did not deserve anything less, did she?

"I thought," she croaked out, licking her lips. "You were going to... give me... hell?"

He tilted his head to the side, and she felt his eyes on her person, studying her. "If you are so keen on wanting punishment, I can arrange it for you."

"No!" she abruptly shouted. Then, "No" she said more calmly. "No, it is quite... alright."

"I have a few questions for you and you will answer them. Truthfully. Lie to me and you will suffer the consequences. Withhold them from me and you will not speak another day in your life. Do you understand?"

She hastily nodded, her eyes wide with aghast.

He took a daring step towards her, then another, and another until he stood inches away from her body stuck against the wall.

"Twelve full-moon's ago, the day of de Pablo's death, you stabbed me."

Farah's insides tightened at the reminder, and her lower jaw shook.

"Betrayed me," he put pressure into the word, making it cut her heart. And sink in deep.

She bit her lip, closing her eyes. She couldn't face him any longer. The guilt was too much. Too heavy.

"Left me," he continued, but this time his tone dropped low, as if betrayed, as if _hurt_, and it brought unwanted tears to her eyes.

_I'm sorry_, she wanted to say, but could only shake her head at his words.

"You left me," he repeated, head lowering a little to make them eye-to-eye, as if to show the betrayal burning in his eyes.

"I didn't mean to," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He continued as though she hadn't spoken. "I bled, I cursed, and I vowed. Vowed to end your life for attempting to end mine."

"I didn't mean to," she said once more, voice low, head shaking. _Please understand_.

"No. You did, woman." He suddenly pressed the armour of his Hidden Blade against her throat, tilting her chin so she stared at him. "It was your plan all along. To end me."

"N-No." She shook her head, a lone tear rolling down her cheek. "No."

"When did you partake in _their_ crimes, female? Was it after the engagement party? Or before?"

She cracked her lids open, confusion in her irises. "I don't... know what you're talking about."

He suddenly slammed his fist against the wall next to her face, startling her and earning a yelp of surprise. "Do not lie to me!"

"I'm n-not!" she cried out, trying to wiggle free from his hold. No use. "Please, believe me... I'm not."

Altair's shoulders rose up and down, and his rough, hot breath attacked her skin with every exhalation. He was raging. Furious. Ready for a battle. Ready to end her life.

Then he stepped away from her, control gained, his expression once more unreadable. "It is a pity for I believe you not, female. Never shall I grant my trust to you. You are not even worth my time."

She reached out for one of the bars, trying to stand on her weak feet despite her trembling knees.

"You Templars deserve nothing but death, it seems." His clasp on the dagger tightened.

Templar. That word again. "Why," she said, licking her lips. "Why do you keep on calling me that?"

He fixed his gaze on her, then he was furious once again. "Are you mocking me?"

"No," she instantly retorted, shaking her head. "No, never. Not you. But I swear to you... I'm not a Templar. Whatever you're calling me. I swear to you on my life, I have never heard of that word before. I promise you."

A beat of silence passed. Then another. And then another. They were staring at each other, and his eyes searched hers for the truth.

Finally, Altair chose to speak, his dark voice echoing in the coldness of the dungeons. "My questions are finished."

That only meant one thing— her eyes widened. He came at her, slamming her against the wall, making her see stars. She felt a sharp point pressing against her stomach.

She released a gasp, and horror-filled brown eyes clashed with determined, merciless golden ones.

"Any last words?" he asked coolly.

Her throat tightened. Tears burned her eyes. He wasn't really... going to... was he? No, he wouldn't. Right?

"Altair," she said his name, shakily breathing in and out. At the sound of his name, his eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw ticked in evident irritation.

"Altair," she repeated, desperately attempting to gain his mercy. His understanding. Did he not have the answers now? She was not a Templar. Not his enemy. "Please don't... please don't..." her voice broke. Her vision suddenly blurred due to the fresh tears. "I... I'm sorry. I really am. I just desired my freedom. I'm so sorry. Oh, God, please don't do this."

He still faced her with his cold demeanour, but if she was not mistaken, the thin veins in his eyes were a little redder. "Is that all?" he demanded softly.

She began shaking her head. "No, please! No!"

The tip of the dapper pressed a little deeper, enough to graze a dot of blood.

Her lips parted widely, and her hands grabbed at his shoulders, tightly clutching the material of his robe. "Don't! D-Don't! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Altair, I'm begging you!"

He pressed the knife deeper, and his eyes were a little wetter. Or she was mistaken for she was crying herself, her tears scalding her cold cheeks and wetting her lips and chin in a messy manner.

"No, no, no! Please! No, no, no—" she released a hoarse cry when he slammed the knife straight into her stomach, and toppled a little forward. A tortured and guttural sound escaped her throat.

Mouth wide open, red eyes gaping wide, she slowly brought one of her hands to her stomach, pressed it, and witnessed hot blood ooze out. He... He stabbed her. He actually stabbed her!

At that moment, her knees gave out and she fell. Altair fell with her on the ground. Oh, God. Oh, G-God.

As her wide eyes gaped up at the dark ceiling, she felt strong arms lift her. He took her in his arms as he extended his one leg and bent the other, hugging her bleeding figure close to himself.

This feeling... this feeling of being embraced... it was... him? Yes. Yes it was. He had made all her nightmares go away. She could decipher this embrace anywhere. He held her at one of her darkest nights. He saved her from her demons... and now he ended her.

She stared up at his face, his shadowed face, and witnessed tears drip down to her hairline. She wished to speak, to speak to him, but the pain in her middle was too unbearable. It was burning, it was scorching, and she felt something hot travel up to the base of throat. Blood gurgled out of her mouth, choking her.

"Do not try to talk," Altair spoke softly to her, and now she actually saw the redness in his eyes.

But she had to... she had to...

Slowly, she raised the hand resting on her stomach to his face. He watched the action, watched as her bloodied fingers neared his face and put them skin-to-skin. Farah gently palmed his face, that beautiful face, and, with her thumb, traced his lower lip and that scar.

"I..." she tried to say but could not. "I..."

"Do not."

Must. I have to. If she were to go like this, she wanted to make it right by him.

"F-For...g-give..." she forced out. His broad hand palmed her delicate, bloodied face. "F...For..."

Her breaths were coming short, and her heart was slowing down. Blood still continued to ooze out of her stomach.

Have to say it. Must say it. Deserves it.

"Forgive... m-me," she at last ground out with all her remaining strength. And with that, the hand pressing against his face dropped back to her stomach, and her head became too heavy for her to hold.

Her lashes fluttered a bit, her body began to feel cold. Oh, so cold. And her lungs refused to draw in breath.

She formed a small smile. Her mama. She was going to her mama. Tears of sadness and happiness flowed down her eyes, the emotions exciting her body and making her cough out blood.

"Shhh," Altair cooed, skidding his knuckles against her soft cheek. She looked up at him, a smile in her eyes. I'm going back to my mother, she wanted to say but couldn't. From the look in his eyes, she knew he understood her nevertheless.

_She was going to her mama... She was going to... her..._

One breath in. One breath out. Her eyes rolled inside her head and her body completely shut down.

After a heartbeat, she died in Altair's arms.

-x-


	21. Chapter 21

What We Can't Have

Chapter Twenty-One

1191, Masyaf

Wordlessly, Altair stood at the entrance of the cell. Through his shaded gaze, he observed the lying form of the female on the filthy ground. Her hand rested over her stomach, her long midnight hair splashed across her features, blanketing her snow-white arms, and her thick, black lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, granting her a tranquil image.

Languidly, he trod towards her form and knelt down. His hand reached for her neck and he felt her pulse with his two fingers.

_Thumpthump! Thumpthump!_

It was steady if not a little slow. She was sleeping. He released a breath he didn't know he was holding. Removing his hand, he reached behind him, withdrawing the pulsing Apple of Eden. It glowed in his hold, and then gradually, gracefully, its glow faded after he ordered it stop, once again returning to its formal appearance.

It had worked. The illusions he cast upon her, the illusions he made her see, the pain he caused her to feel, worked—just alike the time Al Mualim had tricked him into believing he'd died before resurrecting him to his formal glory and sending him on a journey to gain redemption.

But whatever she had witnessed, he controlled it—his part of the action—and the answers he'd gained after this interrogation left him with a bitter and unpalatable feeling. Right after jumping to her feet when she had spotted him at the entrance, he'd commanded the artefact to activate, and after a moment, she had collapsed to the ground. And now here she lay, softly snoring and in deep sleep.

He put the artefact and the dagger in his hands away. She'd awaken soon.

Working his jaw, he warred with the options in his head. Then, coming to a conclusion, he brushed away her silky strands from her face, slid one arm behind her back, one behind her knees, and hefted her up. Her head gently lolled to the side and came to rest on his shoulder.

She released a delicate sigh and—much to his surprise and dismay—snuggled closer, burying her nose in his neck. Popping his jaw and narrowing his eyes but offering no further resilience, he turned on his heels and strode out of the cell and dungeon, leaving only the two on-going torches and their reassuring light behind.

-x-

Sitting at the edge of a small bed, elbows digging into his knees, and one hand draping his lower face, was Altair. He was in deep thought, not much aware of the woman shuffling around the room, preparing what he asked of her. Behind him, on the soft bed, lay the female, her feet once in a while brushing against his back and thighs as she changed positions. She murmured something under her breath before trying to stuff her cold feet under his thighs, attempting to gain heat.

The action grabbed his attention. He tossed a glance at her, seeing she still slept, and asked the woman—Maryam, the main housekeeper and the one responsible for the chores done around the fortress—for a blanket.

She complied and brought the material after a moment, draping it over the female when he asked of her.

"So is she the one?" Maryam questioned.

He looked up at her from his position on the bed. "Excuse me?" he asked in confusion. He wasn't paying much heed to her.

Maryam, the much-aged wife of a deceased assassin, rolled her serene grey eyes. "I have heard of rumours that consisted of you keeping a girl locked in the dungeon. I see now that she is real. Take no offense, but her identity intrigues me."

Altair shrugged, taking no offense. "We were acquainted in the past, but it does not matter. When she awakens, you can take it upon yourself to learn her for she will strive under your command."

The woman arched a brow at him. "A servant?"

He curtly nodded.

She released a husky if not a warm laugh. "My, my, a female servant to keep me company. Did it take so long for you male assassins to just realize that now? But alas, I am pleased. Despite the novices performing most of the chores, I shall find a place for her."

"Your efforts are duly noted, Maryam. You have been kind to us barbaric men who forget to cleanse the underside of our muddy boots before walking over freshly washed carpets."

She offered one of her deep chuckles, emerging straight from the depths of her chest. "But I have never suffered that from you, Altair. You were always mindful, even as a young child. How you have grown," she shook her head in disbelief, "And now leading our Order... I knew there was something special in you and pleased to at last have seen it. You are an honourable man."

He inclined his head down in an act of humbleness at her praises.

"I'll see to that warm bath now," Maryam said, a vibration of amusement accompanying her tone when Altair once more fixed his gaze upon the sleeping female. He offered Maryam no response as he visited the memories of his interrogation.

_Why do you keep on calling me that?_ her voice filled his thoughts._ I'm not a Templar. I swear to you on my life, I have never heard of that word before._

_I just desired my freedom. Please don't do this. I'm so sorry._

Pleas for mercy, that wasn't new coming from his enemies. Those he tortured always in the end begged for a shred of mercy—something he'd never bestow Templars. Assassin blood had been shed, so will a Templar. Like for like.

But the female's pleas were... odd. Yes, she did beg for life, but as she did so, it felt as though she'd begged for him to understand her more than all. And he'd prolonged the interrogation, even going down the path to point the dagger at her. Her reaction was one of reason, of course, but it should have encouraged the answer right out of her. The problem? It hadn't. Death was always a good game to play with his prisoners because in the end, they cowered in fear and spilled all the beans. They just valued their lives too much.

The female spilled nothing. She just kept on begging. Was she a trained soldier, then? Was death nothing to her? No, he thought. She did prize her life, that was the sole reason she'd kept on begging. And her fragile body didn't look anything alike a trained soldier's. She was not taut and firm, no. She was soft, plump and light, curvy in all the right places. The last thought caused him to growl in distaste, and he focused on the problem instead.

That is when he decided to drive the dagger into her belly. Pain, he had at last made her feel it. Feel the dagger cutting muscle and organs in her body just as she had cut his, and had felt his dark side—where vengeance roamed—finally sigh in relief. But unlike him, her body would carry no scar after she'd awaken, almost like it never happened, it didn't in all reality, but he'd be marked with a constant reminder.

But that was not important. Not anymore. It was the truth. A part of him refused to mark her body in any way agonizing. She had witnessed that enough from her late father. Altair suddenly growled deep. No, he did not care for her. Not anymore. But as of now, he was someone better, someone who had grown generously, and he held an honourable status amongst his brethren. He refused to taint himself once more and fall out of grace, and marring the female would do him exactly that.

But the illusions were different. They were done in means to get answers and answers only.

But he will not deny that when she'd fallen to the ground, blood gurgling out of her mouth, seeing her in that state had actually made something reach inside his chest and grab his heart. And as he'd watched her—finally thinking he'd acquire the real answer since many an enemy he had killed, including the Nine, had always revealed their intentions and sins before Death took them—he was shocked to his very core when she'd raised her bloodied hand and, in her last moments, instead of admitting her crimes and her faults, she'd instead asked for his forgiveness.

A Templar asking for forgiveness? A Templar holding pure intention in her eyes showcasing she meant what she said? A Templar _actually_ being truthful?

Something was not right. Something was amiss. Either she fake-died hiding a secret or she was not a Templar at all.

But what more could she cover when he'd brutally crushed her? And, dare he think, if she was not a Templar, was it really all done for her freedom? When she'd stabbed him and fled, leaving him, was is it all done in sincerity to escape the death he promised?

But then again, she hadn't learned of his decision on that day. Hadn't learned that he would not kill her but at last would set her completely free. And she had done what she thought was right to save herself, hadn't she?

How could he blame her when, if the situation was reversed, he would have done the same?

He scrubbed a hand down his suddenly tired face.

It was the latter, wasn't it? No matter his strong denial, no matter his gripping belief to accuse her, there was a light shining down on her. Because in the illusions, the only thing she admitted was that she merely desired her freedom.

He rubbed between his eyes.

Perhaps it was so, then. But his feelings would never change. He would never trust her again. She could live here, free, but she could never leave it. That was all he was going to give her. Because if she left now, the Brotherhood would definitely be at stake and he couldn't have that. No matter the reasons, she had still stabbed him, nearly robbing him of his life, not even stalling him with a stab on the thigh or shoulder, but deliberately on his abdomen to end him, and after all they had gone through, the least she could do was to at least jab him on his thigh.

Maryam would care for the girl, she was trustworthy of that responsibility. But as for him? He would stay clear of her, would keep his distance. They wouldn't be the same again. He was changed and so was she, and he didn't desire to know to what.

Rising to his feet, he made way to the door. Addressing Maryam, he said, "Inform me when she awakens."

Maryam nodded at him.

He might not know the female that well but one thing he was sure of, after what she had experienced? She would throw the biggest tantrum, and he could imagine her doing so, and almost smiled. Almost.

With that, he exited the room, wanting to clear his head in the fresh midnight air more than anything.

-x-

1191, Masyaf

The night was dark and brisk, the determined wind nipping at his skin and enveloping his body even past his attire. He welcomed the coolness; it eased his mind. The stars abraded the dark velvety sky, their twinkling sight granting the aluminous moon a heavenly view from where they stood on the ground below amounting to mere dots when the world above taunted them of everything mysterious and grand they could only wish to attain. But he wished to attain it—using the artefact. He would broaden his views and knowledge, building bridges never before even thought of. And then crossing them.

"So this is where you escaped to," a familiar voice said from behind him. He didn't bother turning around as he stood in the garden, the exact place where he battled his mentor and killed him, and experienced heaviness settle on his shoulders. He was... mourning. Despite his mentor corrupting himself with the power the artefact granted, he still was his mentor. That fact would never change. He was a father figure. He shaped him into an assassin, given him purpose when he had none, especially after losing his father at a tender age. He barely recalled how he looked like but somehow made it his aim to fill in his shoes. He didn't regret it; his father was a Master Assassin after all.

Malik halted at his side, also looking up at the sky. They stood in the silence, it wasn't uncomfortable but it needed to be broken.

Altair decided to respond. "Escaped? From my own brethren? I see you drank yourself full tonight, Malik."

A snort. "Maybe."

Silence. Then, "I interrogated her, Malik," he softly spoke.

His friend faced him, eyes carrying the signs of slight surprise—and eagerness. "Well? Is she an innocent? A Templar? How did you see through it?"

"She is an... innocent, I admit. I cast illusions on her, making her see me do things I was not; making her feel pain. I used the Apple of Eden to my advantage, thought it to be the most safe way."

Malik gave him an incredulous look. "You... used... Altair," he let out, and he expected a lecture from his friend but, to his incredulity, only received, "I'm impressed. You avoided real, permanent damage to her body. What kind of torture or, might I say, pain did you make her feel?"

"Only the worst kind."

Malik nodded in understanding. "Ah, I see. You gave her death."

Altair shook his head, lightly scoffing. "No, Malik. I snatched it from her."

A sudden female voice shouted from inside the castle, catching both their attention. When he turned around, he found Maryam racing to his side from inside the building, her face filled with... discontent? Worry?

"Altair! Oh, Altair! You must come!" she said, breathing loud and deep when she finally stopped at his side.

He frowned down at her. "What is it? What is the matter?"

"It is," she loudly heaved in and out, trying to catch her breath. "It is the girl! She is awake and she screams. Oh, how she screams. They are not so of fright but more of anguish. And," she grabbed his arm when Altair had already begun striding inside the building, pace determined. Only her hold on his arm briefly stalled him. "Something is wrong," Maryam croaked out, voice deep and hoarse from her hasty running. "Something is definitely wrong with the girl."

Altair was already making past the library on the lowest ground, strides long and swift, covering large amounts of space as he took the east wing of the fortress, twisting right, left, left, right before he grabbed the knob of the chamber and burst inside.

The female was pressed against a corner, the blanket tightly clutched to her chest. Her eyes were wide, her chest rising up and down in a fast pace. When she spotted her new guest, she let out another scream.

"Don't come any closer! Get out!"

Malik and Maryam burst inside the room but he stopped them by pushing them a little out. Maryam was right, there appeared to be something wrong. When the female looked, it wasn't a look of familiarity but was searching and searching, as if she couldn't quite find what she was looking for.

When her gaze landed on him, it was frantic. Wild. Scared.

He cautiously raised his arm in attempts to reassure her but only managed to drive her more up against the wall. She then began to walk closer to the open window, her back brushing against the wall as she did so.

"Female, calm down," he said, taking a step forward.

She saw it and immediately retaliated. "Step back!" She pointed a finger at him. "Step away from me! Don't come any closer!"

Altair complied, slowly retracing back his steps. "Are you content now?" What a foolish question. Of course she wasn't; she'd just awoken from a fake-death.

She didn't answer him but instead said, "I died. I remember dying. How am I alive? Where am I? What have you done to me!"

Altair slightly frowned but gently, as if trying not to frighten her further, answered, "You are not dead. You are well alive. And you are in Masyaf. My home. Our home," he gestured towards Maryam and Malik, who stood at the doorway, gazes filled with confusion.

The female frowned, eyes taking on a muddled and lost look. "But I... felt the embrace of death. I'm... I'm supposed to be dead. I don't understand... I... And Masyaf? What is Masyaf?"

Altair took a step forward, and she instantly backfired. "Step away!" and grabbed the window.

"I'm not going to harm you," he let out. Not anymore. Did the girl not know geography? Had she never seen a map in her life to know what—where—Masyaf was?

She shook her head. "I don't care! Not a step closer."

He nodded. "You are in the home of the assassins, remember? You were brought here two or so weeks ago?"

She slightly brought the blanket closer to her body, as if shielding herself. Her look was still the expression of a lost child. "Assassins?" she murmured out, slightly shaking now. "I... don't know where I am. I only remember dying and waking up here and of someone's... that is not important."

Altair straightened his spine, the colour gradually draining from his cheeks. Was is it possible that she... "Do you know who I am?" he asked, his insides churning and clenching. Surely she had to know...

A second passed in silence, then another before she slowly shook her head. "Who.. are you?" she asked in a soft murmur.

Altair was suddenly chilled to his very bones, and dread fell upon his features. He turned around to face Malik and Maryam, and both wore shocked expressions. Was it the Apple? Did it have side-effects? But he never suffered from them. Did it change depending on different mental strengths?

He turned to face the female once more, and she was very close to losing it. Frantic, she looked here and there, searching, searching, questioning, questioning, and when coming up with no answer, biting her lip to stop a cry from escaping.

He had done this to her. He was responsible. Was there no cure? Would she remember by time? Would it go away after an hour or so as her brain found its footing once again?

It mattered not. What mattered was the present. She was hurting. He had to ease it.

He raised his palms up in surrender, saying, "Look at me, female."

She didn't. Her eyes fixed on every furniture in the room, trying to find herself in the process.

"Female," he raised his voice a bit, but not in a frightening manner, just to get her attention. It did. She glanced up at him but did not speak.

"My name is Altair," he informed her. "And I run this castle. I'm the Mentor. No harm shall come to you, do you understand?"

She stayed silent, still lost, still trying to find her way to the surface. Then, her eyes slowly run up and down his body, taking him in. "You are armed," she let out, fear overshadowing every feeling showing in her eyes.

Well. It had to come to this, didn't it? With swift motions, he removed every dagger, throwing knife, blade and weapon he had on his bodice. They all clattered down on the ground. With his foot, he kicked them out of the room.

"No weapons," he reassured her.

In those eyes filled with warning, caution, fright, confusion and dread, a small flicker of trust ignited. When he watched as her gaze slightly gentled, her walls slightly coming down an inch, he released a breath of relief.

Then Malik made the mistake of stomping into the room, in his half-drunken state uttering loudly and pointing accusingly, "She might be faking!"

That might've undone her because she abruptly jumped atop the window, grabbing the edges for balance and shouting, "I don't care who you all are! And I'm not faking! I don't remember anything, but I do remember dying. And I'm not afraid to die again if it means ending this misery," she leaned a little forward, provoking them. "Come one step closer and I'll jump!"

"Oh, sweet girl! Come on down!" Maryam let out at the doorway.

"Out," Altair gritted out. "Now."

Malik tossed him a look, the girl, him, and then muttered something under his breath before stomping out. He turned to Maryam. "Is the bath ready?"

"Yes."

"Good. Please go to the kitchen and grab good amounts of food prepared for the feast and bring it here. Knock the door but do not come in. Nobody enters this room. Are my orders clear?"

They both nodded in unison, and Malik closed the door behind him.

He turned back to the female.

"I'm not lying. I speak the truth; I recall nothing. But it doesn't matter now, does it..." She was about to turn around and give him her back when he quickly let out a, "Wait."

She stopped mid-process but didn't face him.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

She bit her lower lip, running the question in her head before slowly turning around and nodding. "I... am. Very much so. Where is it? Where is the food?" Such eagerness.

"It will come."

As if coming to a conclusion, she gave three fast shakes of her head. "No! No, you are tricking me. I have made up my mind. It hurts," she whispered, torture overshadowing her features. "It hurts not to know anything. I will do myself a favour and end this."

At her words, the muscle below his eye ticked. "Fine," he then let out, pretending to give up. "Do as you wish."

A little defensive, she stood erect, tilting her chin up in stubbornness. "I will."

His lips slightly quirked at the sides, and she caught the movement. Her eyes instantly narrowed. "I'm not jesting," she warned.

He sheepishly shrugged.

She run her tongue against her teeth. "Goodbye, then." With that, she turned around.

"Before you go down, I just want to warn you that the height you will fall from will severely injure your determination to die for, indeed, the ground is merely five ft. away."

After hearing his words, her head snapped down and he knew she saw the grassy ground for they were on the lowest base of the castle. He let the half-smile curve his lips.

Her head turned back to him, and he saw the struggle in them. The smile fell away.

"Come on down, Farah. Food will come, I give you my word."

Her eyes widened and her lips parted in disbelief. "Farah? Is that my name?"

He nodded. "Farah Dovaros."

She repeated her full name, trying to see if it will ring any bells. Instead, her face contorted to more confusion and anguish at not being able to remember.

"Farah," he began and her eyes landed back on him. "I will walk to you with no ill intention. Do not fret."

He saw the movement of her tender throat as she swallowed. The engines turned in her head, he could see them in her eyes, and at last she formed a barely visible nod.

Palms up, he took a step forward, then another, and another until he was gently walking up to her. She followed his every step, studied him. When he was standing before her, his head coming to the same line as her chest, he glanced up.

He outstretched his hand. "Will you come down now?"

She stared down at him, at his waiting hand, at his face before extending her own delicate hand and resting it on his. Something warm and electrical sizzled up the length of his arm at the moment of contact, and she gasped, her widened eyes finding his. She had felt it too, then. He frowned, displeased. He would undo what he has done but that was it. She couldn't start relying on him, but by the manner she was already seeing him made him think he was a little too late.

At that last thought, he scowled and immediately snatched his hand away from under hers. He did so rather rudely, startling her, as if making her think she was some kind of poison, and almost instantly regretted his action.

Her eyes glassed over and tears of hurt formed. Her chin trembled a bit.

"I apologize," he started but she shook her head at him, the pain in her eyes travelling soul-deep. He might as well have cut her heart out.

"I don't know anything about myself but already somebody sees me as a freak. I don't know what to do," she wiped at the tears that kept on coming, "I don't have the slightest clue on how to proceed. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!" She stomped her foot down on the window's parapet in frustration.

She was crumbling right before his eyes. Her pieces were falling one by one, and she was losing herself. He himself did not know how to proceed. What could he do? What _should_ he do?

Then, remembering how she'd reacted to his embrace when she was having nightmares, he gradually raised his arms and wrapped them around her.

Her body jerked in awareness, and she gasped. But she did not protest. She stood frozen in place as he gently tightened his hold, one hand going to the back of her head and the other on her spine, comforting her. Attempting to, at least.

"You are not a freak. I made the mistake of acting without thinking. I will help you restore your memories, worry not. You shan't be forever lost."

He would restore her memories. Because unlike anybody else she had a source. The Apple of Eden. The artefact did not act but with steps that could be retraced. For each of its actions it had an explanation; he would find hers and redo whatever had gone wrong. Perhaps not wrong but definitely an impact of side-effects.

Delicate hands found their way to his back and he felt her clutch the material, squeezing tightly. He gradually guided her down from the window. She buried her face in his chest, her sobs beginning to shake her shoulders, and he oblivious to his own actions began to rub her back.

In time, her shakes and trembles waned and she stiffened. Lifting her head, she stared up at him as though she found an answer. At least one clue.

"What kind of person I was yesterday, I haven't the slightest clue, but one of the things I remember besides dying is the embrace of an individual. It held me in one of my darkest nights. I don't know how I know that but only that I do. The memory of it is not there but the feeling definitely is. And your embrace is just as right and guarding and reassuring as the one I had felt sometime in the past."

Altair stiffened in return. She recalled the feeling of his embrace? It mattered not how or why but the fact that, indeed, the steps could be retracted. Her memories were there, just a little shy, that was all.

"How did this happen to me, do you know?" she softly asked, and in her tone there was the lilt of trust and a little fear.

His lips parted as a chill travelled down the length of his spine. He immediately pulled away, once more pushing her and marring her feelings. How could he tell her he was responsible? Responsible for her current mental state? But as she still looked at him, awaiting for the answer she trusted he would give, Altair straightened. How could he lie? He would not, that is how. His honour demanded nothing less from him.

She would know the truth.

He opened his mouth to reply but the sudden knock on the door cut him short. He glanced back. "The food has arrived."

The female suddenly took two steps forward. "Food?" she nearly exclaimed, eyes twinkling with... excitement?

He ignored her and reached for the door. Opening it, he took the tray of food from Maryam's hands, thanked her, and closed the door in her face.

He walked over to the table stationed next to the open window and placed the tray atop it. "Eat," he said, pointing at the food.

She stood there dumbfounded, staring at the food, him, the food, him, and then back at the food. "Is that for... me?"

He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "Are you going to make me repeat myself?"

The female, ignoring him, hastily skid the chair back, sat down and literally tore through the heated, crispy chicken. On the tray was the well-cooked chicken, a plate of salad, a bowl of fruits, and water in one glass and wine in the other—the latter after the meal for relaxation. She tore through each one of them. Biting the meat of the chicken, stabbing the salad with a fork and driving it into her mouth as well as popping a few grapes in, she chewed with her mouth full. And moaned as if in heaven.

Speechless, Altair stared at her.

"Mmmm!" She deeply sighed, closing her eyes in utter ecstasy. "I didn't eat for, like," she paused, thinking, and then sheepishly shrugged. "Who cares? This is so good!" She chewed, chewed, chewed, swallowed, drank some water, and then repeated the entire process until only the bones of the chicken, the naked stems of the grapes, and an empty plate of salad remained.

She leaned back against the chair, exhaling in bliss and rubbing her now round tummy. When she glanced at Altair, as if only now seeing him, she straightened. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Did you also... want?" She pushed the tray to his direction and, finding nothing was left except the wine, she blushed a bright red.

He smiled despite trying to withhold it and shook his head, walking up to the table and taking a seat opposite her. "It was all for you."

She smiled at him, saying, "Thank you. You have been... kind to me."

Guilt hovered over him, and he found that he couldn't keep his eyes on her anymore. "To answer your earlier question... I know how it happened."

She straightened, leaning on the table and watching him with full expectant eyes.

He exhaled. "I did this to you."

"You?" she instantly echoed, brows knitting together. And then she stopped leaning against the table, stopped looking at him as someone she trusted. He expected another burst of emotion, a commotion, but to his mild surprise, she offered none. Cautious, confused, she asked, "But why?"

He side-smiled sardonically. "Believe it or not, me and you have history together."

"What kind of history?"

"The kind where betrayal plays the main role."

She was silent, then, voice low but still guarded, she asked, "Did I betray you?"

Altair raised his eyes on her once more. "Yes, you did. But then again, I didn't give you another choice there."

She still stared at him. "Do you hate me?" she then asked softly.

He opened his mouth to respond, closed it and sat in silence. He realized he couldn't answer that question. He did hate her—this whole past year. He hated what she did. But after the current events, he did not loathe her. Maybe felt a milder emotion than that towards her.

"You do, don't you?" her hoarse and shocked voice broke the tense silence. Tears immediately stung her eyes and she brutally wiped them away. "You despise me."

Altair shook his head. "No, female. If I had despised you, I would have killed you for real."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I had to know something for myself." It was as simple as that.

"Are you satisfied with what you have gained, then?"

He ran his tongue against his upper teeth, his eyes slightly narrowing at her line of question. "Yes, I'm satisfied with what I have learned but not with how it ended with you. You were to wake up in one piece but you didn't. This, I need to own up."

She swallowed, then licked her lips, leaving a sheen behind on that smooth, pink petal. He realized where he was looking and instantly tore his gaze away, clearing his thoughts. He scowled. No more delaying. He would leave for now and come in the morning.

"How did you kill me and not kill me at the same time?" she began asking. "How is that possible when I clearly felt death take me? When I felt the pain? An ordinary man cannot do that. It is simply impossible."

"Well, you will soon learn that I am no ordinary man. And those questions need not be answered. You live, you breathe. I will aid you in helping you remember but that is all. Now, get up, go to that adjoining room," he pointed, "and bathe. There is hot water in the tub. There are also a set of fresh clothes on the stool you will see at the entrance."

"A bath? For me?" she questioned in bewilderment.

This time he rolled his eyes. "Is there also a problem with your ears that you failed to mention?"

Despite the tensely conversation they shared, a full smile parted her lips and she clapped her hands together in utter anticipation. She jumped to her feet, run past him and made it straight towards the washing room. Before she entered it, she suddenly stopped, twirled around and said, "Don't leave."

Her statement took him off-guard. After admitting what he had done to her, this is what she wanted? He frowned.

"I will be out soon. Just... please don't leave." She turned back around, walking inside the bathroom before she tossed another "Please" over her shoulder at him.

This time he was struck with utter confusion and puzzlement. He definitely understood her not. Was there more damage to her brain than he lead on? Did she still trust him after what he'd told her?

Frowning still, he cleaned up the table, left the room to drop the empty dishes at the kitchen—leaving the glass of wine in her room—and returned to the chamber. Then he stood before the open window and stared outside, all the while hearing the female sing and hum from inside the washroom.

There was a splash of water. "Rivers flowing by, wrapping around my feet as I— Mmm, this soap smells so good I could eat it!" A burst of laughter. Then she fell silent.

"Altair?" she slowly rang out, a lilt of fear in her voice. "Are you there?"

He sighed. "I am present, female."

"Oh," she said, relieved. "Okay."

Walking over to the edge of the bed, he sat down, digging his elbows into his knees. Posing his balled fists under his chin, he began contemplating the current situation and how to use the Apple according to her state. Her memories weren't completely erased, that was sure. He simply had to urge them out for they might've hid due to the mental torture she went through. He didn't realize he was that deep in thinking when he suddenly spotted a shade before him.

When he snapped his head up, he found the female hovering over him. She waved her hand. "Hi."

How long had he been sitting?

He abruptly stood, the top of his head nearly smacking the girl's chin in the process. She took a step back, releasing a gasp.

"Are you finished?" he asked, his gaze raking over her figure. She wore a long white tunic and black slacks. He nodded in approval. Her skin was rosy white and glowing, her cheeks red and her lips... too red. He hastily glanced away. Fool, he scolded himself.

"Yes," she replied, smiling.

He curtly nodded, his jaw set firmly and his expression unwelcome. "Good. This will be your room from now on, and that," he pointed without looking, "Your bed. Sleep now, I shall come in the morning." With that, he bypassed her, and avoided bumping their shoulders together.

Before he even reached the door, she grabbed onto his arm, letting out a panicked, "Wait!"

Without turning, he gradually turned his head. His irritation was evident in his eyes.

She staggered for a second then, licking her lips, murmured a, "Stay." And before he could voice his negative thoughts, she quickly added, "I don't trust myself to sleep alone. I'm... scared something will happen to me."

He turned to her but her fingers never released their hold on his arm. "Nothing will happen to you. You fear the unimaginable."

Her eyes bore stubbornness. "No, I fear the possible. Yesterday I had my memories, today I don't. Please," her voice dropped. "I fear... I fear the... dark?" Her brows furrowed, and she pondered the statement in her mind. He could see it in her eyes. "And I don't trust anyone here," she added.

He arched a brow. "But you do not identify that feeling with me?"

She formed a timid shrug. "Well, we might've had bad-blood in the past, perhaps still do... but," she swallowed. "A part of me really does feel safe around you. Besides, you were kind to me."

Altair cocked his head to the side. Then, with stature so provoking, so predatory, he neared the female. "You put your trust in me that much?" he whispered, and she instantly removed her fingers, face slightly paling. Her lashes fluttered as she took in the new sight of him. He closed in on her, his boots almost squashing her small toes.

"I..." she stuttered, eyes never leaving his. "I... well, I... guess?"

"You guess?" he lowly prompted.

She couldn't start putting her trust in him because she'd begin to rely on him and rely on him she definitely could not.

Suddenly lifting her chin in determination, her own stature rivalling his, she stepped forward. Placing one foot above his boot as if to claim her small toes victories, she said, "Yes, you I'm the least wary of. What happened in the past does not concern me for I recall the events not. What matters is the present, and you were amiable and hospitable."

Altair offered no response. Silence settled on the room, the only sounds coming from their breathing and the music of insects and crickets coming from outside the garden. Taking her foot away, the female's arms gradually rose, and he instantly caught on the movement but formed no protest. When her fingers reached his hood, he grabbed her wrists, surprising her.

"What do you think you are doing?" he demanded, growling. Her eyes widened briefly, as if she herself did not know of her actions before he caught her mid-way. She blushed.

"Pardon me," she whispered, lowering her hands. He released his clasp on her. "I just wanted to study your face in the light." That was all?

Revolting against his better instincts, his hands reached up and shrugged the hood off, presenting the female with all the angles and shades his face bore. "Are you satisfied?"

"Satisfied?" she immediately echoed, her eyes lost in his appearance. "When you are more beautiful than me? God forbid for that word is too tame."

Her words astounded him. He did not expect such praise. But there she went again, admitting him to be beautiful just alike a year ago.

He lightly scoffed. "You exaggerate. Now that you have assured yourself that I am full man, go to sleep. Dreams shall accompany you until morning dawns and it is my turn."

Her eyes softened a bit at his last words but she still shook her head in obstinacy. "I fear to be left alone, warrior. Accompany me now, I plead you. Do not leave me to my dreams for I sense they won't be of sunshine and blossoming buds. I know I demand too much but the gripping feeling in here," she flattened her palm over her chest, "will not fade if you abandon my company."

Altair_ tsked_, but it was of vexation. He massaged between his eyes. "Alright, I shall keep you company until sleep overtakes you. That is all I offer; do not plead for any more, female."

She beamed, revealing twinkling eyes and straight white teeth. "That is more than enough. Thank you!"

"I will go wash up," he said, stepping away from her and walking over to the washroom. "Do not disturb me."

"Take all the time you need!" she called out behind him. Lightly scoffing, he began taking off his hood, robe, boots and the thick belt on his waist, leaving him in only black slacks and tunic. When he entered the washing room, he heated water from the hot hearth, filled the tub, undressed and slipped inside, not caring when the water overflowed and splashed on the ground when he sank deep. The water was scorching hot, turning his skin red. Just the way he preferred it.

He hissed softly.

After a long while, when the water began to turn mild and cool, he washed up and stepped out of the tub. He dried himself with one of the towels resting on the wooden stance with the many, and used another for his face and head. Dressing in his black slacks and tunic, he exited the washing room, the towel tossed over his neck, his hand rubbing his head with it as he dried his wet locks.

To his dismay he found the female next to the window, the glass of wine in her hand as she stared outside. He had hoped she'd fallen asleep already. From the heavy pad of his feet, she instantly turned around. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped mid-process as her eyes ground on him. Once, twice, she ran her gaze over him, as though studying him, and cleared her throat.

"I thought you had fallen asleep in the tub," she made out, smiling slightly.

He narrowed his eyes. "I thought you had fallen asleep waiting for me."

She shrugged, drowning the rest of the wine down her throat. "It seems we both thought wrong."

He ignored her as he walked over to the bed and sat down. Shuffling his wet locks with the towel once more, he tossed the material to the ground next to the bed. Before he opened his mouth to tell her to go to sleep, he felt the mattress behind him cave down as a weight settled above it. When he glanced over his shoulder, the female had already lied down, the cover thrown over her. She jumped to her side—his side—and stuffed her hand below her head. With the other she padded the space next to her. _That little..._

With a low grunt, he turned and lowered himself next to her. With one upraised knee, one hand resting on his stomach, and one arm thrown over his forehead, he closed his eyes.

The female wiggled a bit in bed, disturbing him but he said nothing. After a moment, something warm fell over him and he cracked one eye open to look and found she'd shared the blanket with him. Jumping a little, she soon lay still.

"I don't know why I have such long hair," she muttered next to him. He barely stopped himself from sighing out loud.

"You shall find out soon," he muttered back, knowing exactly the reason why she had long hair and refraining the answer because he deemed it right for her to learn it herself. "But now try to sleep. I had a rough week."

"Alright," she whispered. "Goodnight."

He ignored her. After a moment, he felt her forehead brush against the side of his face as she wiggled close. Now both his eyes snapped open and he glared. "You are invading my space. Lay back or I will leave this room right now."

She instantly shuffled away. "You just smelled so good."

He was silent, then, closing his eyes, he tried to relax.

"Did_ I_ just say that?" her aghast voice resounded.

"Female."

"Sorry," she quickly muttered. "I will try to sleep. Thank you," she next said softly. "I don't know where to start from expressing my gratitude."

"Start from closing that little mouth of yours," he retorted. To his surprise, she laughed, shaking the mattress for the briefest moment.

"You intrigue me," she next said. "Alas, goodnight, Altair. But, if I so happen to awake to no memories in the morning, know that I took great pleasure at getting acquainted with you."

Altair slightly cracked his lids open but did not say anything. Minutes passed in silence, then, craning his neck a bit, he found her eyes closed. She was still awake but was at last content with the silence. He straightened his neck, shutting his eyes once again.

Let sleep consume her wholly and I will take my leave, he thought. But after a few heartbeats, his breathing became deep and his body relaxed against the mattress. Soon, he fell asleep next to Farah, the rise and fall of their chests moving in the same rhythm.

-x-

**AN:** _You guuuuuuuuuys. Of course she isn't dead, I just got them together. But THANK YOU THANK YOU for caring for her, really. I'm happy that you guys find my OC likeable. I love her so mcuh lol._


	22. Chapter 22

What We Can't Have

Chapter Twenty-Two

1191, Masyaf

The first thing that distorted her neutral expression was her lips. She smiled.

It came instantaneously, so sudden, that she didn't have the time to question as to why. She was happy. Even before conscious greeted her, the blissful sensation raced it and hit her first. And she genuinely smiled because everything felt so gloriously right. So magnanimously... full-filling. Yes, that was it. She was content. _Finally_.

Best. Sleep. Ever.

When conscious at last hit her, she cracked her lids slightly open, then closed them. The smile was still on her lips, curving her cheeks deeply and brightening her mood. The dewiness of the morning and the golden sun-rays streaming past the open window and warming her bare feet only added more joviality to her state. Sighing out, she nuzzled her nose against a soft surface, and lazily rubbed her knee up and down a stern... something.

What an embracing, soft yet stiff, and very good smelling bed she lay on. She sighed. _Don't want to get up_, she thought appealingly, almost in lazy content. _Want to rest here, in this haven, all day_. But then something shifted next to her and she felt a weight settle at the top of her head. It caused her muscles to lock in place.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed at the cause.

It seemed right then reality slammed its hard fist right against her head, rattling her senses.

Oh... "My God..." she softly whispered out. Her eyes widened and her plump lips parted. She was at once breathless, confused, bewildered, and flattered. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight—no, at the person—before—below—her. Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her head and balanced her weight on her left elbow. A warm calloused surface slid down to the slope of her waist, grabbing her attention. She looked to the side and found his arm wrapped around her securely, meshing her to him.

Forget breathing. She had no lungs working inside her.

Still wearing the expression of dumbfounded shock, her eyes rested on his face.

This was not real. This could not be taking place. Altair. Holding her. A dream; she was surely dreaming. The man she had stabbed in cold blood a year ago would never—

She gasped, and her lungs burned and relished in the small amount of fresh air she in-took.

I remember, she thought in aghast. "I remember," she croaked out, as though thinking it alone was not enough. She was Farah Dovaros, her mother Dominica Dovaros, her father— well, may his rotten soul rest in peace. She remembered! All; every horror-filled and joyful memory. Every disaster, every heartbreak, every sweet word and caress. Every bruising beating.

She recalled being in the cell, recalled the man who loathed her with every fiber of his body stand at the entrance, recalled dying in his arms, in his embrace, recalled waking up to no memory and recalled, her chest constricted painfully, the way he took care of her. Tended to her.

He assured her, fed her, prepared a bath for her. He'd given her clothing, given her a bed to sleep on. Hell, given her this entire chamber to bolster that no one shall cause her any harm. He was with her in one of her darkest nights, was there when she was the most vulnerable, and was here now...

Her heart. Beating. Chest. Aching. _I don't think I'll ever breathe fully again from this day on_, she thought.

But she also remembered dying, remembered the utter feeling of relief knowing she was going to meet her mother. Now it was snatched away from her. That hurt; it really did. He gave her death and before she could relish in the thought of finally resting in peace, he brought her to the surface. He toyed with her. But... she knew that wasn't the case.

He promised her hell, and it appears he'd achieved that as well. He promised to give her death, too. And he had... only not real. He interrogated her first, attaining needed answers, and then had done the deed.

Even when she'd awoken to no memories, she had _still_ been there. Behind a veil shrouding her from reaching the zenith. She was under water, and as much as she flailed her arms, as much as she battled the pressure, it seemed she'd drowned deeper to the depth of her subconscious.

It was her in the physical realm but minus the memories that defined her. She was an empty shell acting with no clear purpose but with the few emotions that sizzled to life here and there within her. She had attempted to grasp one, clutch it in her hands and obtain it and remember, but even that proved impossible. And no matter how hard Farah had tried communicate her whole being into that empty shell, she could only muster a few things. She spoke, she heard, she felt in the muddled sense, but it was not enough. Her memories she could not grasp. But she had seen what took place in the physical realm, digested in every small detail, and had melted under the massive amounts of water drowning her.

Before sleep washed over her, Farah had fought hard and fast against the currents shoving her down, and she'd screamed and screamed, and at last had ripped free of the reigns holding her down. She swam to the surface, and regained her body once again. She'd come out victorious. And now, recalling everything, she did not know what to make of this situation. Even with the dying and awakening to no memories, she possessed no physical injury. The assassin had not killed her, hadn't even left a small scratch on her. Whatever had happened had occurred in her head, and perhaps it was mental torture but in the present it seemed like a bad dream and she was glad to have escaped from it. Truly, the absence of her memories was a child's play in comparison to her nightly nightmares.

But that wasn't the problem, no. The problem was... what was she to do from now on?

The assassin had been honest with her, fair, and had done so many cordial efforts in one moment than anyone had ever done in her entire life. No matter her nearly taking his life, he'd spared hers. No matter her wronging him on so many levels, he'd been merciful towards her. Being in the dungeon would've contradicted her thoughts but he had left two torches igniting in the darkness, had most assumingly ordered Malik to feed her every day, had even embraced her when nightmares feasted on her writhing soul. And she knew that to be him because before she died, he held her in his arms once again and she'd affronted Death in the face with rivalling boldness. He'd been more gracious to her than crude, hence what was she to do now? How was she to act?

Did she _owe_ him? Was she once again in his favour? Now that she remembered everything, would he once more give her the cold shoulder? Ignore her? Loathe her more strongly than ever before? _But did that matter_, she thought deeply. Then, _Yes_, Farah concluded helplessly. It did matter. She didn't want him detesting and cursing her very existence anymore. That would... she didn't exactly know what that would do to her, only knew it would definitely be the complete epitome of the Hell he promised her.

But no matter her thoughts, no matter their past, he'd excused her. And no matter her pride revolting against the upcoming conclusion, she admitted that she, indeed, owed him. Immeasurably. He'd denied her the death she brought upon herself and that was enough justification.

Refocusing on his sleeping face, Farah studied him.

He appeared so serene, relaxed, almost... boyish with his head gently tipped to her side of the pillow. She trailed her eyes over his features, noticing her stomach quiver even when she battled against the sensation. His long, thick lashes formed shadows under his eyes, his smooth forehead was tension free, and pink lips slightly parted in the middle. She examined the strong line of his jaw, his stubborn chin, perfectly sloped nose, and—she dug her teeth on her lower lip—the hollow of his cheek, outlining and revealing strong bone structure. His dark hair was dishevelled atop his head, and that appealed to her eyes greatly.

She suddenly had the strong urge to trace her fingers across his face and through his dark strands. Then, aware of their position, she hastily glanced down to their lower bodies. Her jaw dropped open, her eyes enlarged, and breath hitched in her throat.

She had crawled atop him, her arm splayed over his broad chest and their limbs entangled together. She had one knee rising all the way up to his abdomen, in the process driving up the edge of his black tunic. His sun-kissed skin played peek-a-boo under the material and her knee. To make matters more fortuitous, he had his hand resting on the thigh of her leg settled on his abdomen.

Oh, dear. Oh, no. This was so good— No! She sputtered. _Bad, bad, Farah._

Okay, alright, she had to crawl down from him, and that meant the removal of his hand on her thigh. Licking her lips, Farah slowly, gently, outstretched her hand and yet again slowly, gently, tried to pry his hand away. That only ended up with him abruptly tightening his hold, fingers pressing soft skin almost too roughly, and it took all her strength not to moan— No! Not moan but whine. Yes. Whine in irritation due to the lack of success.

Pressing her lips together, Farah attempted once more. She, inch by cautious inch, lifted her leg and began moving it down. The rigid clutch of his hand loosened and it fell to his side. The sudden heat of his palm on her thigh vanished and she involuntary mourned the loss. A part of her really desired him to wake up to that sight.

She mentally slapped herself, commanding she get a grip of herself. _Naughty, naughty, Farah!_

When her leg flattened down on his outstretched limbs, she released the breath she didn't realize she was holding. This was good; she did not want him to hate her more than he did, and waking up to that sort of view would've earned her an instant arrow to the heart.

But then, when she was preparing to completely lift her weight off of him, her eyes caught the revealed skin of his abdomen, and stilled. The waistline of his pants hung low on his hips, revealing the bones' angled and devilishly curved structure. It wasn't what caught her attention. Sort of. What made her zero in on his skin, causing her very heart to drop to her belly, was the rugged scar marking it.

It glared straight up at her, cursing her.

Farah's throat constricted, and guilt instantly stabbed her right in her aching, beating organ. That was the mark she left on him. Oh, the time she feared he held the scar of her life, if only she realized it was the other way around.

Despite her better judgement, she outstretched her hand and, licking her lips, pressed her shaking fingers on it. At the moment of contact, she sharply gasped. It was scabrous, rough, and cruel below her fingertips.

Farah tipped her head to the side, eyes filled and overwhelmed with remorse, as she stared at Altair's sleeping face.

_I'm sorry_, she internally projected to him. _God, I'm very sorry._

But his face remained the same, calm and in deep sleep.

_You betrayed me_, his dark voice suddenly echoed in her head, and she shut her eyes at the pangs of agony it brought.

_You left me_.

"Oh, God, have mercy on me," she whispered, cracking her eyes open.

_It was your plan all along. To end me_.

How could she make him understand that it was not so? That she'd acted on rash impulse? Without thinking it through? Did he _now_ understand, after what had occurred last night? Please, please, please, let it be so, she internally pleaded.

Fixating her brown pools on the scar once more, she gently caressed it. The body below her touch unexpectedly stiffened, and before she could make sense out of things, the hand resting on his side snapped up and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it.

Farah gasped, her insides freezing. Then, "What do you think you are doing?" came the hoarse yet lethal voice of Altair.

Shutting her eyes in a _'I'm so dead'_ manner, Farah, gulping, turned her head to face the assassin. Please let him be a morning person, she prayed before lifting her lashes. But when their eyes clashed together, she knew right away that he wasn't even an afternoon person.

Gone was the tranquil image of him, gone the boyishness. His golden hawk eyes carried the heaviness of the world in them, and his features were outlined with roughness. His lips tugged down in a scowl, his brows furrowed, and his eyes tossed invisible daggers at her, and she found herself lost at words.

What should she say? What should she do? Should she tell him she'd gained back her memories? Should she keep it a secret? Maybe she should bid him a good morning?

"I, uh, I was, um," she stuttered, blinking. _That was a brilliant answer, Dovaros._

Then, as though reading through her confusion and even inner thoughts, Altair bolted right up, and she nearly fell off the bed.

He, with a still harsh look, gritted out a, "You remember." It wasn't a question but a statement. That meant there was no use masking it from him.

"Well, I... Uh, yes?" She lifted her shoulder uneasily.

His scowl deepened. "So it was just your brain trying to find its footing." He curtly nodded, and now, tossing her an indeed familiar look of great dislike, he rose to his feet. That look came to her as a blow, and it took all her strength to keep her expression neutral. She slowly sat upright.

_Hates me_, she concluded on the inside, the knife in her beating organ now twisting and sinking deeper. _He hates me_.

"I'm sorry if I—"

He boldly interrupted her with a single raise of his hand. "Don't ever presume to touch me again."

Stunned, Farah stared up at him, her mouth open still in the process of finishing her sentence. The dagger that had pierced through her heart now tore it in half, and she flinched.

Hurting me. So badly. Deserve it, she next thought. Nodding, she pressed her lips shut. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to—"

"It concerns me not of what you meant to do, female," he interjected with impatience. She stared at him from her position on the bed, and took in his current appearance. He was irritated, his slashing brows furrowing deep and angry. His clothes were dishevelled just alike his hair, but Farah swore that, by absorbing his puffed and reddened cheeks from sleeping, his full plump parted lips, and the sleepy glaze still in his eyes with just one look, she'd never witnessed a more delicious sight. He appeared raw, almost. Edible. And she wanted a taste.

Oh, God, stop! Here he was casting her so much hate and here she was wanting a bite. What would he taste like? she next found herself pondering.

Towering high above her, Altair sharply inhaled. "Don't look at me like that."

Confused, Farah arched a brow. "Like what?"

Silence, then, he raked his gaze over her, taking in her appearance, his eyes trailing from head-to-toe. Up, down, then slowly up again. She could guess what he saw. Her dark hair cascading down her spine, framing her creamy face delicately, and her own cheeks red and puffed from a goodnight's rest. She was as bedraggled as he was. The collar of her wide tunic, she realized, hung down her shoulder, revealing creamy skin and two small moles. She was also biting and chewing her lips, leaving them red and moist.

Altair's expression suddenly transformed from menace into... A shudder rocked her, and goose bumps decorated her skin. Something dark befell his eyes, and the golden pools burned hot and wild behind those spiky lashes framing them. The atmosphere around them crackled and thickened, pulsing with a soul of its own, and he almost looked ready to... pounce.

She at once felt air abandon her lungs. Why was he... Then, realization dawned. Was that how _she_ was staring at him? Her stomach tightened and quivered in unwanted delight.

"Y-You stop looking at me like t-that!" she stuttered, pointing a finger at him.

Her voice might've penetrated his senses because he snapped out of some trance and fixed his gaze on her. Then came the repulsed and scornful expression, and he growled low and dark. "There will come an older woman to your chamber, her name is Maryam. You will serve under her."

That easily spoken, that airily ordered, left Farah speechless. "What?" she found herself saying. "I am to serve?"

Something flashed in his eyes, and he straightened, bracing his legs apart and crossing his arms against his chest. "You will serve, yes, and you will do much more. She will explain everything once I take leave from this chamber."

She licked her lips, her lashes fluttering a bit. "I need to ask something of you."

"A request? Have you that much confidence in yourself?"

Even when her cheeks burned with colour, she stubbornly lifted her chin and, throwing her legs over the bed, also rose. She took her position before him. "It is not a request, assassin. I simply wanted to learn if you... if you," she faltered, not knowing how to approach this sample of topic.

"If I have learned everything that I needed to in the dungeon?" he finished for her instead.

She was silent, then, she nodded. "Do you still—"

"Blame you? If I had, woman, your soul would have been in the Afterlife right this moment."

"So you don't?" she blurted out in sudden burst of joy. Did he really not find fault in her?

That seemed to have annoyed him because he narrowed his eyes at her, running his tongue against his upper teeth. "Just because I don't fault you doesn't mean I favour you. No, female. Those days are long gone, and they're never coming back. You might not have meant to kill me but decidedly meant to betray me. You have lost my trust, and I'm not a man who suffers fools easily. You shall never be the same in my eyes. One thing I will get straight: steer clear from me."

Farah opened her mouth to say something, to at least revoke a few misunderstandings, but he didn't give her the chance. "You wanted freedom? Well, here it is. One that shied away from death. I've given you an opportunity at life, use it wisely. Strive under Maryam's care, she shall give you your monthly payment. Roam into the small village resting below but never abandon Masyaf. That, I forbid."

"But I—" she started but was in-tolerated. He stepped away from her, turning on his heels. "My work with you is finished. Your past actions have been pardoned, hence do not seek me out." He tossed a brief look over his shoulder, presenting her an expression of indifference. "I wish nothing to do with you from today henceforth."

Just like that, the world around her began shaking, rumbling, and crumbling down. Brick by brick, dust to dust.

Cast aside. Just like that. So easily, so effortlessly. Unwanted. Undeserving. To him, even a buzzing fly held more value than her. She was _nothing_ to him. Nothing. But... what of his mercy? What of the night he held her in the darkness? Didn't they amount to at least _something_? Anything?

She pressed her lips together, withholding the sob that was tightening around her throat, threatening to escape. No. She would not break before him. He already saw her as an insolence, she didn't desire to stoop lower. And she definitely did not want to disappoint herself either. She was better than that.

But she still faced the ground as her eyes welled up. Curse this! Her ears twitched as she heard Altair put on his robes, boots, and belts. She heard as he stomped towards the door and, without another word, opened it and slammed it shut.

She started at the sound, but then slowly exhaled through her mouth. Lifting her head, she swallowed hard, hastily rubbing her palms together and glancing around the room in search of nothing in particular. The urge to break down was worse now in his absence, but she quickly shook her head, straightening her spine, and made her way to the open window.

Cool air blew inside, refreshing her face and causing her hair to slightly waver. She took in the scenery before her. Wilting grass due to the coming of the cold season, somewhat barren trees, barks, and flower stems, and the cloudy sky. The white balls lazily glided over the blue vastness, for a brief moment shielding the sun and casting shadows on the land below before, leisurely, drifting away and allowing the golden globe to brighten the morning once again.

It did nothing to illuminate her sullen mood.

Farah suddenly hiccupped, and she covered her mouth with her fingers. Then, one moment her expression was unreadable, neutral, and the next her eyebrows furrowed in the middle, her face contorted into one of misery, and the edges of her lips curved down. Her vision began to blur. Stop. Do not. _Please_. But his words still echoed in her head.

_You have lost my trust. You shall never be the same in my eyes._

_I wish nothing to do with you._

And then it happened. The imprisoned sob tore out of her throat and broke past her trembling lips. She shut her eyes and almost immediately pressed her fingers to her lips in attempts to stifle the upcoming tortured sounds.

You are not weak, Dovaros. So what if he loathes you? So what?

"No." She shook her head, squeezing her eyes even tighter. Hot tears slid down the curve of her cheeks and she brutally wiped them away. They didn't stop; they kept on flowing down.

Why did it matter so much that he naught despise her? Then, the answer came to her as clear as day. He was... her _friend_. Yes, she'd feared—but never blamed or loathed—him a whole year and a few full moon's, and rightly so, but prior to her stabbing him, they were... She hiccupped, and her shoulders gave a quick bounce.

They might not have been friends in all its terms, she admitted, but they were close strangers, two beings driven with different goals but still intertwined in the most messy yet comfortable manner imaginable. They went through thick and thin, Hell and across, beyond the thresholds of pain and into the abyss and back. He was the closest thing she had for a friend, and they had a queer yet gravitating bond. And _she_ was the cause of its ruin. She destroyed everything—no matter how little— they'd built, solely in... the name of her freedom.

He would've killed her otherwise, she thought. If she hadn't struck him, he would've struck her. But, now witnessing such weighing mercy even _after_ she'd wronged him, was there a chance of him ever killing her after their mission's success? Oh, how the thoughts cut her, each blow coming from a different direction.

Reopening her eyes, she stared outside through wet, spiky lashes. Her mouth parted, but no sound emerged due to her compressing her throat muscles. The tears travelled down her throat, clogged it, and rushed down to her stomach, twisting the muscles and causing her middle to ache. She rested her hand on her waist, gripping the material of her tunic.

It _hurt_. God, it hurt _so_ bad.

But his words still razed through her anew, aiming even the heart of her soul. She covered her face with her hands as a tortured and a very weak cry flowed out of her throat. And as much as she comforted herself with reassuring thoughts, her resolve began to crumble. And as much as she willed the pain to stop, it only increased, burning her from the inside out.

Face still in her hands, Farah's shoulders shook, each tremor more violent than the last.

"What am I to d-do?" she muffled out with a strained cry. Grabbing her stomach with both hands, she hunched her shoulders and pressed her chin to her upper chest.

"No more," she softly wailed out, even more tightly squeezing her wet eyes. Her face muscles burned as her lips stretched in an agonized manner. "No m-more."

Swiftly brushing away the tears and her nose with the back of her wrists, Farah straightened, sniffing loudly. Her breaths came out shaky but she was calming down. Leisurely but still calming down.

Deep breathe in, deep breathe out, she told herself. Following her thoughts, she obeyed. Breathe in, hold, now slowly breathe out. She gently exhaled. Again, she commanded. In, out, she inhaled and exhaled, and the tremors eased down, her inner muscles unknotting.

She was okay. She was in control. Everything was going to be fine.

The door suddenly creaked open, catching her attention. She turned around. A woman entered, a quite aged woman, and she concluded her to be Maryam. She possessed greying brown hair, calm but weary grey eyes, and a quite chubby form aging people usually have when they're hitting their sixties or seventies. She wore a black robe that fluttered down until her ankles and a shawl that draped her shoulders.

She remembered her from last night and how she'd tried to calm her when she'd awoken screaming and thrashing.

Maryam's eyes settled on Farah and instantly she palmed her chest and let out a, "Poor girl. Oh, sweetheart, come here."

Farah knew she spotted her red eyes, the smudged dry tears, and her pitiful expression. When she spotted the elder woman spread her arms and approach in all honesty, Farah awkwardly smiled. "Oh, no. You don't have to... I wasn't... It's, um," the woman still neared her, and she suddenly burst into tears. Gone was her composure, gone her strength. The woman embraced her, palming the back of her head and resting it on her own soft shoulder.

Farah sobbed out, sniffed, sniffed, and let another round force its way out.

"Shhh," she cooed her, rubbing her back in reassurance. She took comfort from the act. "All will be well, my girl. I will take great care of you."

At her words, she cried harder.

Maryam warmly chuckled, the vibrations even effecting her own chest. "Now, now." She caressed her head. "Why such sadness?"

Farah herself did not know; the dam to her emotions had been lifted and she could only allow the rush of emotions to overtake her. Palming her cheeks, Maryam lifted her head and put them face-to-face.

"Do not shed any more tears, I see you are stronger than that. And I never see false. Look at me, girl," her husky tone rang out. Farah gazed at her through sniffs and soft sobs. With her thumbs, the elder woman wiped her tears away, and brushed her face with her hands in a motherly way. Her chest suddenly ached at the act. "We women are made of pain, we _are_ pain, and we always bear it. Nothing can get the better of us. Remember that."

She gently nodded.

"Good," Maryam said, smiling and fixing Farah's attire. "Now what do you say we go to the kitchen and have breakfast together, just us ladies?"

Even though she met Maryam only recently and was a bit cautious of hers, everyone's, motive here, the thought appealed to her so immensely, she found herself nodding hastily.

"Yes?" Maryam prompted.

Farah sniffed, wiping at her face as she whispered, "Alright."

"That's a wise girl. Now go wash up, I will be waiting for you here." She patted her shoulder warmly, and turned her to the direction of the washroom. Farah nodded. "Okay."

Walking over to the bathroom, she straightened her spine, gaining further more vitality. The support of a stranger encouraged her to gain back her composure. No more weaknesses, she firmly concluded. If Altair had made the choice to never even breathe her direction, she made the choice to never show any frailty. Yes, she knew she owed him in some way, and she'd return the favour be it with serving under this woman's hand or never abandoning Masyaf. But no more shedding tears for the man who acknowledged them not. This is the last time, she vowed to herself. This is the last she'd ever cry over him. She let out a final shaky breath.

With her soul now content after the release, she entered the bathroom and gently shut the door behind her.

-x-

1191, Masyaf

After the recollection of his weapons from outside her room, Altair now slammed the door to his chamber shut, his mood foul and dark. He clenched and unclenched his hands, the knuckles leaching out and filling with colour.

_Damn this! _He wanted to snarl. _Curse her!_

He violently breathed in and out, trying to gain control but to no avail. It was her doing. Hers only. His insides shook just by the mere sight of her sitting on the bed. The bed they'd shared. So what? Many had done so before her, and not it that pure, naïve manner. So why _her_?

Why did she claim the top of the pyramid? What right had she?

None.

She had none and would always have none.

Damnation!

Body still tense, still burning, heating, he trod towards his bed and lay atop it. With a deep dissatisfied sigh, he rested his arm on his forehead and shut his eyes.

Calm yourself, Ibn La-Ahad. You appear like a flustered young boy.

It simply had been too long since... Well, Adha. _Adha_, he murmured her name in his head, feeling his chest tighten and burn—he gladly welcomed the distraction. The one woman he'd allowed himself to fall in love with but had not saved in time. He'd gone mad, his heart torn and shredded into million pieces never to be whole again when he'd found her dead body. He'd rampaged, alright. The blood of his enemies coating his every blade, even bare hands and face, in attempts to pay for Adha's. Revenge had done him no good. She'd still been gone; she'd still suffered pain before her death. He could never undo that, could never return her to him. Her soul was now in rapture, soaring high above the Heavens in abundance while he remained on Land in this accursed state.

Perhaps the abrupt sealing of his heart, one could muse. Never to submit into any sensation, any pleasure. What he had within his left breast was not a beating organ but a stone. But above all, he was not deserving of anything comforting. Of any affection, adoration. He was a weapon, now a mentor. His duty far outweighed his personal desires.

Thinking of Adha would've usually put his mind at ease but oddly nothing occurred. The memory of her failed to consume him in its holy and beautifully dangerous sensations. He was in the same state he was when he'd entered his chamber just a while ago.

He was still fuming. Still burned up. He was _aching._

"Never," he growled out, eyes snapping open. He would cut off his hands first before laying them on the woman in that manner. But his body, now the betrayer, boiled from within, and he flashed back to the memory of her flattening her fingertips on the scar she'd embedded, and had _almost_ arched his head back, commanding she continue or be punished. The touch came as ice to his burning skin. And he'd desired more of it. Was ready to demand shamelessly.

He recalled the way she glanced up at him, her brown pools darkening and heating as she eyed his body as though she were planning on having him for breakfast. A part of him wanted to give her a taste—a small taste—to torment her of what she'll never again have, but now acknowledged the only one tormented would've been him. The way she'd nibbled and bit down on her red, plump lips nearly undid him. And the manner in which her tunic slipped down one shoulder, revealing creamy skin and two small moles, had him the oddest yet strongest urge to lave his hot tongue against that softness, abundantly pecking those small moles before driving up his lips to the curve of her neck and deeply burying it there.

Altair suddenly tensed, but it was not of yearning. He was suddenly aware of the train of thoughts he was provoking within him, and was greatly disappointed in himself.

What was he doing, lying here and imagining destructive thoughts? Had he no control over himself? Had the events concerning Adha taught him nothing? He was an assassin, hence he should act like one. Just a day ago he was ready to torment her but now... he understood the sudden change of situation not. He was a man of principals; hence dreaming of the same woman who'd lost his trust and one he deliberately told they'd never settle on an even flooring was rhetorical if not a complete abomination. Rising to a sitting position, he came to a conclusion.

He could not and would not pursue down this road. It was dangerous, discouraging, and simply repulsing. It was apparent that it had simply been too long since he'd last been sated. Any other woman would do; that female's allure was one in the many. Thinking of her and dismissing all that had averted between them because the basic nature of his body demanded satisfaction was approvingly not a sane thing to do. And yet, instead of thinking of visiting a brothel in the village below, he shook his head and decided to have a cold shower.

A mentor who could not gain control of his own body was not fit to be a mentor at all. His duties to the Brotherhood ranked first, and then came the duty to himself. It shall always be as such. The woman he'd avoid; he meant his words in that room. He wished nothing to do with her. She'd corrupted him enough for a lifetime; her stay here was solely in means to keep his brethren safe. Now, after getting her out of the way, his attention was for the Creed's evolvement and the Apple of Eden. No more delays; no more caving in.

The cold, calculating part of his personality surged forth, granting him with clarity. It was the part that always got the job done. The stubborn, determined part that only granted success and allowed nothing less. He'd always favoured that aspect of himself.

Mind and thoughts now more grounded and chained, he strode to his washroom to cleanse himself of this morning's events.

-x-

After having breakfast with Maryam in complete yet oddly comfortable silence, she introduced her to the kitchen staff. There was an old but not frail man and his son and daughter, Haroon and Zainab. While the father cooked, the daughter helped with the vegetables and the cutting while the son with the dishes and equipment. From her withdrawn yet perceptive state, Farah had already formed some kind of bond with these people.

They weren't bad nor manipulative. They were simple and honest, and that's what had pulled at the strings of her heart. The old man, Hamza, was of fifty-eight, possessed one dark brown eye and one white—he was blind on the latter—and thin greying head. Zainab was of twenty-six; she was lovely, simple-minded yet very authentic and enriching in her speech. She had beautiful brown hair and eyes, and her skin was tanned and smooth. Haroon on the other hand was completely different. When Hamza had stated him to be his son, Farah nearly choked on her food if Maryam had not rubbed her back to sooth the muscles.

Haroon was of the fair type, golden hair, brilliant blue eyes, and skin white as the clouds. He was leanly built; his shoulders broad, his waist slim, and his legs long and powerful. He was also very, _very_ tall. Six-foot-four, it appeared so. His only flaw was that he was deaf. But in the way he constructed his body language, one could not argue of how wonderfully accurate he projected his silent words and intentions. Farah was immediately fond of him. He was twenty-eight but kept to himself most of the time. Even when Maryam introduced her to the family of three—their mother had passed away ten or so years ago, as Maryam had informed her in a whisper when eating—he remained in the back, a few feet shy from his sister and father, and kindly nodded at her when they were acquainted. Farah had smiled back but he'd already returned to his work.

Now, sitting at the same table she had when having breakfast, she listened attentively to Zainab converse with her. Maryam had gone to take care of a few things, Hamza and Haroon were in the garden outside. The kitchen was a spacious place but it was crowded with many things. It had two big ceiling high windows, wooden and even rocky shelves with herbs, spices, and all sorts of food necessities, and three huge _kaazans_ in-between the two windows. In them they cooked the meal, and below them was a stance made of rocks but under each _kaazan_ was a space where the fire crackled to heat them. On the walls hung stacks of green herbs, leaves, and garlic. At the far side of the room there was a water pump, sucking water straight from underground to cleanse hands and dishes, and around it there were low cement walls keeping the flow of the water in control and neatly guiding it out of the kitchen. And next to it, there was a hugely built _tandoor_.

She sat at a table cornered to a wall, and to her left was a thick, black metal door that stood a little ajar, the exit leading to the corridor of the East wing of the castle.

Zainab's voice continued to fill the space. "I told my father of different recipes, but he demands that cultural food should never be replaced just because Europeans settled on our land. One could have pride in ones culture, yes, but shouldn't be afraid to try new things. Do you not agree?"

Farah pursed her lips. "Sure. But then again, our elders are more keen to stick to traditions and its foundation than the youngsters, hence do not come hard on your father. He's one proud man, and not so in the negative way. I rather enjoyed the breakfast you all have prepared for us. I, being a European myself, have to acknowledge that food here is equally as good as my country's."

At her last words, Zainab's eyes widened. "Oh, goodness." She palmed her chest. "You are European? I had no idea, although your skin should've given it away."

Farah smiled, shrugging. "I'm of mixed blood. Both Bulgarian and Syrian."

"How interesting," her new friend commented. "You and I are going to get along quite well, I can sense."

"I wouldn't mind a friend at my side," she commented back. Suddenly the image of Sarah flashed through her head, and she stiffened. Then, a little frantic, she asked Zainab. "Is there a place where I can deliver a message to someone?"

Zainab, kind of taken aback by the sudden change of topic, said, "Oh, uh, yes. Of course. Down at the village, there is a man who delivers _maktubs_. Sometimes with the help of his birds. Other times, when the situation is quite critical, we give it to our mentor. He has birds at his working place above the library. Is everything alright? Do you have someone you need to write to immediately?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Perhaps in the afternoon, when Maryam is done showing me around the place and the chores I must do and maybe if you're not busy and don't mind, you can show me his place?"

Zainab waved her hand in the air, and then winked. "Of course. As long as you show me how to cook Bulgarian food."

Farah smiled. "Done."

Her friend threw her hands in the air. "Ah! I knew you and I would get along well. So good to have a female companion in a place swarmed with men."

"Zainab!" her fathers voice suddenly came from outside the door leading to the vast garden at the corner of the castle. "Did you prepare for the meal?"

"Oh!" Zainab let out, biting her lip. "I'm dead! I had to cut vegetables in preparation for lunch. Do excuse me, you were just so interesting to talk to."

"It's okay," she reassured. "Maryam will come any time soon to take me away, anyways."

"How wonderful you are, Farah!" Zainab said, getting up from the table and embracing her. "I'm glad to have met you. But nevertheless, welcome!" Withdrawing from her, she palmed her face gently. "Come to us, me, whenever you like. I'd love to spend more time with you."

Farah cupped her hands and smiled. "Of course, Zainab."

"Zainab!" her father shouted once again. "Oh, do leave the poor girl alone!"

"Coming, baba!" she let out and went out the room, giving Farah a warming smile before she did so.

As Farah rested her head on one hand, biting the nail of her pinkie, she thought of her family back in Jerusalem. She had to write to them, tell them that at least she was safe and they not worry. And perhaps mentioning her wish to inform someone of her situation to Zainab was not a wise thing to do—for indeed news travel fast and might reach the ears of their mentor, Altair—but she had to try. Perhaps she could even ask Altair herself, surely he wouldn't turn a deaf ear to her inquiries.

Suddenly thinking about him made her chest hurt, and the longer she played with the idea of informing him, the harder it got to actually do so. In the end she cowered away from doing so. After what'd followed this morning and his wish for her to steer clear from him, she doubted the outcome of her preposition. She wasn't a great fan of his foul temper.

But if he finds out from somebody else, then the end would be the same to her—he would loathe her deeper. Maybe even punish her. That meant she had to do it before he does find out, and send it away in safe hands.

She sighed, closing her eyes. "What to do, what to do," she murmured.

The sudden gush of water greeted her ears, and she cracked her eyes open. Haroon was washing a few tomatoes and cucumbers at the far side of the kitchen. She watched his back as he worked. When done, he silently rose, walked over to the rocky stance holding the three _kaazan's_ up, and prepared a few things. He didn't even glance her way. Did he even know she was here, lurking at the side and examining him without his notice?

Just when she thought that, he turned around, prepared to grab something, and spotted her. He nearly dropped the knife in his hand from surprise.

She waved a _hello_ at him, slightly grinning as she did so.

His healthy white cheeks turned crimson, and he nodded before turning away and getting back to his task. Then remembering he had to grab something, he turned anew, avoided her indifferently, and brought a bag of white rice.

Farah pursed her lips, mentally forming a nod. _Great. He most probably dislikes me, too_. _I'm the infinite male repeller. _

The metal door whined open and in stepped Maryam. She spotted Farah and ushered her over with her hand. "Are you ready?"

Farah rose, the boots Maryam gave her scraping against the rocky ground. "I'm not even excited," she admitted.

Maryam chuckled hoarsely. "Come, girl. We have a lot to do."

With an internal whine, she followed her out of the kitchen and into the hallway leading forth to different sides of the East wing. Chambers and sitting rooms greeted her right and left side, and unlit torches hung from the walls. Each turn, each corner, had a window, thus leaving the castle bright and effervescent, almost. There was no need for torches at this hour of day.

They bypassed the small corridor leading to her chamber and instead, after a few strides, walked into the central base of the fortress. The area with the main staircases ascending high to the second floor and meeting in the middle to present the mentor's working space. A library, containing volumes of books, rested below the stairs and the second floor. The Order's banners hung high from the walls, ruffling when the morning wind blew in from the many open windows. There were two main exits, the mouth of the castle and the back. The mouth lead to the road stooping low towards the village and the main gate while the back lead to a vast and beautiful garden.

When they crossed over the grand room, she heard voices coming from above the stairs. It was echoing from the mentor's working place. Farah lifted her head almost too hastily, not even thinking twice, but could only spot the corners of the shelves containing numerous books, some high banners, and the legs of the table but nothing more.

She was _not_ disappointed.

Lifting her chin, she bypassed the space over to the West wing, even walking past the library, and promised to herself that instead she'd read every book resting on the shelves.

Maryam lead her to the West wing, climbed up a few stony stairs until they reached the third level and pointed out that these floors, all three of them, was hers to clean.

"Leave the chambers alone; it is every man for himself when it comes to that. But the floors, windows, and the winding staircase, you mop it. This side of castle is your duty to fulfil," Maryam explained, leading her to an opening that lead to a terrace. They stepped out into the cold, the wind now harsher at this height. She instantly hugged herself.

"Don't mop this area every day but do it every four days. Also," Maryam added, looking down from the terrace. "After you're done, I kindly ask of you to not throw your bucket of water from this spot. We grow herbs right below there. It's our mentor's workmanship."

Farah nodded, hiding the expression that foretold that she was planning on doing exactly that before her warning.

"Are we good?" Maryam questioned in her husky tone.

"Cleaning three floors? Whatever is so bad in that?" Farah retorted. Maryam chuckled briefly before leading her out of the open area and into the embrace of the castle walls.

"You can start whenever you like but the aim is to finish before the sun sets. Keep your hands warm, sweet child. The cold season is upon us. Warm a bucket of water from the kitchen's hearth and then do your job. A woman should keep her nerves safe."

"I shall try," she replied. Maryam patted her shoulder and both ascended down the stairs.

And try she did. For almost two weeks she scraped, scrubbed, and wiped the three floors, leaving no sign of dirt or dust. She mopped the terrace, wiped the windows, and kept her hands warm just as Maryam wished. Her skin had become calloused, and more than once had she broken or harshly scraped her nails against the edgy, rocky surfaces. She cried, cursed, and was almost all the time tempted to throw her bucket of water from over the terrace. She wouldn't, of course. Because Maryam would throw her off.

Despite the approaching cold winds, she sweat when she worked and kept her long, thick black hair in a messy bun above her head, some strands falling to her shoulders or curling around her neck. One day she even once went shopping for clothes with Zainab—Maryam gave her due earlier for apparent reasons. As for the letter, she did not pursue it yet. She tried to, Zainab even showed the house of the man, but could not bring herself to write _I'm safe _and end it there. They'd inquire more details, more explanations. And they truly deserved more than that; more than she could offer in her current situation. Hence, she abandoned the task. For now.

But spending time with Maryam, Zainab's family, even getting Haroon to feel at ease as if he were with his own sister, and even teaching Zainab how to cook Bulgarian meals with Hamza's disapproved yet much intrigued mutters coming from behind them as they worked, Farah concluded that no matter in every arduous situation, no matter the Hell one is going through, there will always be something good. Something to remind you that goodness will always prevail. Those moments she cherished with all her heart. She favoured the way they did not inquire anything about her; where she came from, who, exactly, was she per say. They simply accepted her and treated her as someone they knew for a very long time. Her past stayed her own.

And yet, no matter their amiable manners, they could not keep her jubilant all the time. The beneficence comes to an end at some specific time, and those times were the nights. The lonely, overcast nights.

When the stars settle on the dark velvety sky, when the silvery moon illuminates her dark room, heaviness would fall on her chest, and she'd become vulnerable to the attacks of both emotions and memories. She'd feel so abandoned, so... alone that escaping it was not even an option. She had only one, and that was to let it all bury her.

And now here she lay on her bed again, the blanket thrown over her cold body with worry eating away at her. How was Auntie Khadijah, Uncle Ahmad, Sarah? How were they handling her leaving? Did they, too, loathe her for deserting them out of the blue? Surely not. _Oh God, please not_. She could not bear these horrid, provoking thoughts. These... insecurities.

Tears pricked at her eyes and she gently turned on her side, trying to ignore them. But, as usual, when one was ignored, the other saluted her. Peculiarly, the upcoming one always clawed the deepest, leaving open wounds in her chest.

It was the thought of Altair.

In the dead silence, she released a shaky breath.

Eyeing the spot he'd slept with her on that night, she felt the hinges of her emotional boundaries rattle. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand and, with her marred fingers and broken nails, grazed the side he'd lain on.

Cold.

The sheets were cold.

Her lower jaw slightly shook as her brows furrowed in the middle.

For almost two weeks she did not see him. He was nowhere in sight. Their paths never crossed, no matter how many—very low and demeaning, but she could not help herself—times she purposely passed by the central base of the castle, in hopes to run into him so at least _one_ word could transpire between them, she was always disappointed. She'd see Malik, yes, training the Cadets in the training grounds outside, but not Altair. His absence was getting to her. But mostly she hated the thought of him hating her.

She couldn't stand it.

If only they'd cross ways, if only she could offer him a generous and genuine smile, if only she could grab his attention for even a second, it would make these nightly thoughts wane away, for sure.

But he followed his own warning to her more than she did, it seemed. He never wished to be on friendly terms with her.

_He despises you_, her inner voice said. _Why do you even bother?_

"Because I'm the cause of such heinous act," she murmured into the dark chamber. He forgave and forgot, and even though she loved that he pardoned her with every fiber of her being, she loathed that he chose to forget all about her. Very true from his perspective but very disagreeable from hers. She simply wished to go back to the way they were a year ago. She simply desired his friendship and honesty again. She simply... she simply... A tear suddenly skidded down to her pillow, and she sniffed, gaining control of her emotions once more.

Then, clutching the pillow he'd rested his head upon, she brought it to her chest and hugged it. Tightly.

Unlike him, Farah would forget not. She would never forget.

Not ever.

Shakily exhaling onto the head of the pillow, she closed her eyes and witnessed the dark night wane away into dusk.

-x-

_**AN:**__ Okay, look guys. I was on my summer vacay, sorry not sorry. I was resting and having fun, but here you all go. I love you all for dragging me back yet again. You're the best!_


	23. Chapter 23

_**AN:**_ _hi hi hi! Thank you for all the sweet comments and favourites and follows! This ones for you guys!_

_Enjoy!_

What We Can't Have  
Chapter Twenty-Three

1191, Masyaf

Thick, long black lashes fluttered. Lids slowly lifted. Coal-black irises shrank, and a sigh escaped chopped and bitten pink lips.

By the dull, almost dark light seeping into her room through her half-open window, she knew it was only the break of dawn and, indeed, very early in the morning.

She didn't remember exactly when she fell deep asleep, only knew it was late, and now really did not feel the desire to rise and greet the morning. She was _exhausted_. But, as she lay huddled below her blanket, hearing the roosters start their morning crowing, she released a deep groan and rose.

Her morning routine was the same; get up, wash up, comb your hair and then collect it in a bun on top of your head, wear your clothes, your boots, your thick black cloak, and walk out to start your duties. She always went straight to the kitchen, preparing herself some eggs and tea. No one beat her to the kitchen as early as she did, hence she mostly, if not always, ate alone in the silence. Then, when finished, she'd heat a bucket of water and begin scrubbing the three floors until her fingers cried No More. She'd still continue.

When done, when it was a little after noon, she'd once again make her way to the kitchen and eat with all of the company present. Zainab would tell her to wait a little until she woke up so they could have breakfast together, Hamza would tell her to stop patronizing the girl, Haroon would present her his gentle yet apologetic smile, and Maryam would tell her to stop being hard on herself. She never really listened to them; she'd just nod, participate a little in the conversation and then rise to excuse herself.

Most often, she sneaked a book or two from the castle's library when the guards weren't watching, and gazed about the castle to find herself a solitary corner to read in. Sometimes the garden helped, sometimes the highest level of the castle, sometimes a beautifully designed veranda with the right side of it completely open and windowless, only being supported by a low knee-length wall and aligned columns, the height staring down at the garden, and sometimes her own room. But she usually preferred the veranda; it was utterly and breathtakingly exquisite up there.

The narrow space, the right looking out at the garden from a high point, the left possessing a wall but not fully constructed, the surface of it reaching the waist when standing beside it, giving a view of the room adjoined to it, was designed to be presented in a comfortable manner. It had numerous wide, fat sitting mats and pillows strewn over the floor, against the walls, and small tables with flower pots or silver dishes. Snowy-white curtains hung from the space between each column, and every time the wind gushed in, they'd flutter high above the air before gently lowering themselves—before rising up again.

Farah would sit and read her time away in silence, enjoying the moment and bluntly ignoring everything that's taking place within her. Ignorance was a bliss, sometimes. To her? Always. It was an escape from all the hurt and pain—emotions she couldn't deal with at the moment. Maybe never. One moment of weakness, one moment of consideration, and the dam would instantly lift and she'd drown. She couldn't drown. Not again.

Hence the sole reason why she smiled, yet it never reached her eyes, participated in some kitchen activities, yet never allowed them to get close, joked and sometimes allowed to be hugged, yet never reached back. She had built herself a façade, one that protected and shielded her, even from those who meant well.

Every day, every morning and night, her routine was never distorted. She slept in late, woke up as early as a bird, washed up, dressed up, cooked herself breakfast, and scrubbed the cold stony hallways, stairways, and window panes in the chilly morning, the nipping, thick wind never failing to beat against her sweating form and causing her to sneeze numerous times. When finished, when her hands were red and trembling, she'd wash up in warm water, have lunch, then go about her day reading books. When night finally came, when stars adorned the endless black sky, she'd retreat to her chamber and lay awake until her mind finally thought to rest. And those were just the lucky nights.

When morning dawned, her routine would start anew, and she'd have to muster the needed energy to get through the day.

But then, as time passed in Masyaf, unnatural to her, her attitude leisurely began to shift and change. She, instead of isolating herself, found herself seeking company. Reading books suddenly failed to keep her distracted. And she needed one. Hence why she often noticed her legs charging towards the kitchen even before she knew what was happening. And the visits to the kitchen never disappointed her. She began to gently lift her lips, and it was of genuine feelings that somewhat reached her eyes when Hamza or Zainab said something, and awkwardly reached back when being embraced.

The façade she'd hidden behind slowly, piece by one clay piece, began to crumble down. And she allowed it to happen. She even once waited for Zainab to awaken so they could prepare breakfast for all, and it had been a glorious morning filled with beaming features and lots of positive talk and laughter. Had she been missing out on that this whole time?

And now, as the days, with every rise and fall of the sun, came and waned away, so did her pain. Day by day, she was healing, the gaping wounds that were once so wide and hollow, now leisurely being stitched back, leaving only itchy scabs, and she'd actually forgotten what it was like to have a good day. So when she'd awoken one morning, suddenly loving herself and the dewy morning and the grey clouds, she'd been bombarded by feelings of sheer gleefulness and lightness. It had been a long time.

And if there was anyone in this world that could pack all the painful memories and feelings into a travelling bag and zip it up, it was Farah. She'd survived a childhood filled with bitterness and pain, darkness her only companion before her mother timidly approached her; she'd survived the hurt and the cutting, spiteful acts her father performed, refusing to give her the love she so wanted with every fiber of her little body; she'd survived the death of her mother, the one person she wanted to see happy _at least_ once, and now she'd survive even this—because she had no other choice. In her world it was either defeat or be defeated. And she'd never been defeated. Her walls were in their crumbling state due to a _certain_ assassin's actions, but now they were being built anew. Perhaps it was a good thing he stayed away. Her own hard, provocative shell was cast over her body as an armour instead of a false façade. No word sharp as a knife, no action fiercer than a lashing whip would be able to penetrate her armour now.

The wit and courage she'd learned to inspire in herself when she lived with Auntie Khadijah and Uncle Ahmad now sprouted anew, awakening as if from a long, deep slumber. She more than welcomed it; she embraced it.

But these past few days, spending it with Maryam, Zainab, Haroon, and Hamza, she felt... well, appreciated. Accepted; cherished, almost. When her chores were done for the day—she finished them within four or five hours, starting from early in the morning to a little after noon—she'd spend the rest of her day in the kitchen, sprouting conversation, jesting with them just like she loved doing with Sarah, and sometimes—well, if sometimes was the new word for never—aiding them with their chores.

She did aid with the cooking, so there was that. She wasn't _that_ unhelpful.

But what she enjoyed doing the most was teaching Haroon the arts of reading and writing in her spare time. Due to his illness, he wasn't able to get around it. Never really had the chance and definitely had no desire for he was disappointed at every turn. _Farah to the rescue!_

But she would admit that she was failing more than she was succeeding, and yet that didn't faze them at all. Due to Haroon only comprehending Arabic and not English, Farah grabbed a few books from the library, avoiding to be seen, and brought it to him so they could practice together. The library was open for everyone, yes, but that everyone narrowed down to the assassins and the healers. Taking one important volume wouldn't be wise for it would stall the students from their studies—and they studied twenty-four-seven, no jests. But she was sneaky, and they were easy to distract. So, point one for Farah and _boo_ for them.

Haroon bumped his shoulder against hers, snapping her out of her musings. She looked up and smiled. Flipping the page of one volume filled with Arabic scripts, she cleared her throat, trying to figure how she could help him.

Haroon was deaf, yes, but he could see and talk, but the latter he didn't because, well, he didn't know _how_.

He had a voice, and he read lips when trying to understand someone, but he didn't know the letters nor the sounds. But he _understood_.

"_Sah_," Farah said in Arabic, starting their lesson. She knew the alphabet, knew how to read and write, but had a hard time speaking in the grammatical order. But she knew the names of objects and could form a few sentences, and that would suffice for the time being.

It had only been three or so days since they started. He'd asked her—or better yet, questioned in his own typical body language—what it was she was reading. And one thing lead to another, and here they were, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen's table.

Farah grabbed an empty yellow paper, a feather-pen, ink, placed them neatly on the wood, and then grabbed the apple on the table to ask in Arabic what it was.

Haroon looked at her, at the apple, her and then back at the apple. He slowly took the apple and showed the act of biting into it. Farah smiled, nodding. He recognized what its purpose was, just as he recognized every objects in this very room.

They'd gone over the alphabet, and she'd made him write over and over again—no matter how bad his hand-writing was—so they could move a step up. She told him—showed him, really, through body language—to look at her lips as she pronounced each letter slowly and efficiently. Then she ordered him to do the same. His lips moved accordingly but no sound emerged. There _had_ to be sound. Something she'd force out of him in no time, she hoped.

Farah took hold of the apple and said, slowly and efficiently, "_Tu-fa-ha_."

He watched, frowned a little, and then repeated just as slowly. What he mimicked was, "_Tu-fa-aa._" The letter _H_ obviously came from somewhere deep in your throat, but to him it was indifferent.

So what Farah performed was, giving him her side, she showed him to concentrate on her chest and throat. And then through her mouth exhaled as thoroughly as she could, driving out continues _HHH'_s in the process. After repeating it more than thrice, she told him to do it.

And he did. He exhaled, driving out the _HHH_ sound. Farah eagerly smiled at him, nodding her head. He soundlessly chuckled at their own efforts.

Showing the apple again, she repeated, "_Tu-fa-hhha._"

He repeated it with ease this time around. Farah nodded her head in evident approval. Then, pointing at its crimson colour, gaining his confused look, and then at her own shirt sharing the same colour, and then at the clothe wrapped around his wrist, she pronounced, "_Ah-mar._"

He immediately understood and mimicked her lips. This time, he couldn't quite catch the _Ah_ sound. It did not involve the touching of the lips or teeth, nor the moving of the tongue, and although it had the H letter, something they've accomplished to pronounce, he did not yet know how to differentiate the _AA_ from the _HH_. Hence the reason why he kept on letting out _HH_ instead of _AA_.

Farah shook her head, saying, "_No_," in Arabic. Taking hold of his hands, she rested them on her throat, letting him feel the movement of her throat muscles as she pronounced the word. It didn't quite help, so she rested his fingers on her lips, showing him the movement of her breath and lips. Haroon remained a little confused.

Farah released his hands and sighed, thinking deeply of how she could make him understand. Then, an idea flickered to life in her head and she grinned. Clearing her throat, she suddenly pinched his side. Hard.

Haroon jolted in his seat, releasing a contorted, "Ah!"

Farah nearly laughed but kept to herself. When he tossed her a quizzical look, she nodded at him, rolling her index finger below her chin to indicate he repeat the sound again. Understanding dawned, and he pronounced a well, "_Ah_."

She smiled, patting him on the back for a job well done. She then told him to repeat after her the word, "_Ahmar_." And he did. Just like that, she taught him, bit by bit, slowly, gently, the pronunciation of certain words. The alphabet's. Their colours, their shapes, the types of groups they belonged to. And he seemed to understand, sometimes get heated up for not being able get them right, but also enjoy and relish in at this new development. Unknown to them, three people stood positioned at the doorway leading to the garden, and all had warming and utterly pleased expressions. Maryam had her hand on her chest, Zainab was biting her lip to suppress a soft sob from escaping, and Hamza... well, the man was a proud one, he didn't allow certain emotions to get the best of him. But now, even he couldn't deny the hot tears that welled up in his eyes as he proudly watched his son accomplish and cross lines he never thought he could before. _My son_, he thought with great affection.

After a few hours—Farah always made sure never to demand more than he could handle, or never to pressure for more—they stood, both carrying smiles on their faces at the work they've both accomplished.

"That was wonderful," came Zainab's voice as she inched her way to them. "I never thought you could do that. I'm not a reader myself but that was incredible to witness. Thank you, Farah."

Farah clutched her possessions close to her chest. "Don't thank me yet. There will come a day when he'll be able to read faster than you can."

Zainab laughed. "God willingly!"

"Now, excuse me, I want to put my things in my room and the books I stole to their original place. Oh, yeah, don't tell anyone." Farah winked, causing Zainab's smile to broaden.

"Oh, never."

Turning away, she walked to the door, and faintly witnessed Haroon pick up the apple on the table and mouth its name to Zainab, who, grinning, snatched the apple and began eating it, to which Haroon shook his head and went back to his chores. Before she got the chance to open the door, it opened from the outside, and Maryam walked in, bringing with her the scent of warm honey and wild flowers and the cold air.

"Sweet child," she said in her vibrating and deep voice. "Are you leaving?"

"I just finished studying with Haroon, now I'll put my things away. I'll come back. Will you be here?"

"Yes, I just finished giving orders to the Cadets. Malik wanted them to carry more duties than just one for they spend half of their day hanging around and not doing anything. Our mentor, once he comes out of his own studies, will be evidently displeased. My, child," Maryam suddenly said, her gaze on her hands. She clasped one of her hands and brought it close for inspection. She knew what she saw. Broken skin and nails, most scabs and cuts barely healing and others still raw and new. "What is this?"

Farah shrugged sheepishly. "That's kind of rude, you know. Those are my fingers, and the marks on them are the evidence to my hard work. They speak for themselves without me saying a word."

"Oh, child. The evidence is quite brutal. I never thought you'd suffer like this. Do you wish I change your chores to something easy?"

Something inside Farah instantly snarled its denial, and she shot out a, "No!" Then, realizing her reaction, more calmly uttered, "Well, there really is no need. I'm good at it."_ I'm not weak; I can handle this._ "No, really, Maryam. You have other things to worry about. I will just put ointment and wrap them up." She suddenly stilled. Well, hello logic. Where were you these past few weeks?

Maryam sighed. "Stubborn girl. Alright, child, but if ever you find yourself needing another work, find me."

"I will." Farah smiled, and walked out of the kitchen. After putting her things in her room and the borrowed books in the library, she casually bypassed a few guards on watch. They tossed her a few sceptical looks—like they usually did ever since her arrival here—and she shrugged an indifferent _what?_ at them. And like usual, they glanced away with an inaudible sigh. They knew who she was. Oh, did they know. She was the female their mentor kept in captivity, then freed, and then given permission to roam free in their holy home. In short, they were wary of her. And she with them. It was a mutual feeling.

With a happy hop, she approached one of the guards at the gateway. Spotting her before him, he offered a little puzzled look.

"Hi there," she offered in a teasing tone. And waved her fingers. Ugh. A mistake, because instead of evoking a tingling feeling in him, she evoked a disgusted one. Whatever.

"Do you know where that man with the hauntingly beautiful dark features, a very tanned and well-built body, and a specific wicked gleam in his eyes is?" she questioned.

The guard frowned. "Who?"

"Oh, come on. I'm sure you know. He trains a bunch of kids every morning."

"You mean the right-hand-man Malik?"

"That's the one!" she let out with a wicked laugh.

His eyes narrowed. "What's your business with him?"

"Oh, my business with him is none of yours. Do you or do you not know of his whereabouts?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Why?"

Farah groaned. "You assassins are so frus-damnable-tating. Okay, listen. You seem like a very chill guy, so why don't you just tell me where you last saw him. It's kind of urgent."

"How urgent?" he pressed, and she knew he was toying—more like testing—with her now.

Gone was her teasing manner, gone her good mood. Irritation sizzled to life, and she narrowed her eyes. "It's I'm-going-to-slap-you-with-these-hands-across-the-face kind of urgent if you don't tell me soon. And then I'm going to rip your inner organs out and play juggle with them if you don't tell me _now_. Does that sound urgent to you?"

The guard kind of, sort of paled. "He's in, uh, up there." He pointed at the study of the mentor in the main central room above the library.

"Oh," she said, smiling. "Thanks."

She walked away from him and ascended the stairs by taking two at a time. Walking a narrow hallway that had its side looking down at the lower floor, she spotted a black head behind the table, working on something, it seemed.

Approaching the spot, she gave one of the wooden shelves a double knock. "Anybody home?"

His raven head rose, and dark eyes rested on her figure. Then they slightly narrowed. "Why hello there stranger."

She grinned. "Hello back."

He straightened in his chair, eyes still locked on her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"To me, duh. Listen," she started, approaching him. "I know we haven't talked in a very long time. I've been here and there, in and out—"

"Oh, I know," he bluntly interrupted, and his words kind of made her feel... uneasy. Like he knew some of her secrets. Like he knew how she stole a few books from the library when no one was looking...

"Anyways. I'm sure our feelings are mutual when I state how much I missed our little conversations and our fun activities, especially when you used to tie me up like some dog. Good times."

Malik's eyes shone with amusement, and he gently nodded. "No better times have been spent."

"But, because we go way back, I need a favour from you."

"What is it?"

"You see these beauties?" She raised her hands before her chest and wiggled her marred fingers at him. "I need ointment. Can you get one of the healers to check them up? I'd do it myself but one, I don't know where they are, and two, I have a high suspicion that they don't like me."

He leaned a little in his seat. "Of course. Jaffar!" he suddenly shouted. After a moment, the stomp of boots was heard. Oh, he was actually going to do it without any questions asked?

"Yes, Malik?" came the voice of the young assassin.

"Get one of the healers here, and tell them to come prepared."

A stiff nod. The stomp of retreating boots. Also no questions asked, no denial. Such loyalty.

Malik leaned back on the chair again, raising a slashing brow at her. "Anything else?"

Farah clapped her hands in fake-excitement. "Oh my God, are you saying I can ask for more things!"

He snorted, shaking his head, but his lips slightly twitched. "I usually spotted you at different parts of the castle but never approached you. You appeared well if not a little dead. But now I see some colour in your cheeks, it actually and quite oddly pleases me. Tell me, how are you faring?"

"Well, I'm not dying if that's what you're getting at. But I'm faring well, thank you for asking."

He slowly nodded. "So that's it? You're well? Has anybody been unkind to you?"

A certain assassin's face surfaced to her mind, and she suddenly wanted to file a complaint on how he nearly broke her in half. But she quickly and quite easily suppressed the tortured feelings. "Wow, you're asking as if I should still be somewhat suffering."

"Are you?"

"Nope." She smacked her palms together. "No need to meddle on that topic now. So you're the right hand, huh?"

"I know, pretty ironical." He snorted, giving his right shoulder a lift.

Farah smiled. "I think it's suiting."

"Glad you think so."

She grinned, and began slowly strolling around the space, picking up a few books from the shelves, placing them back, and softly ticking on the cages holding a few messenger birds in. She smiled at them. "Hey, little guys." Before Malik could tell her to stop patronizing them, they heard the approaching of footsteps. A healer, fully draped in a robe, appeared before them. He was old but stood tall and proud—if not completely healthy looking. She walked up to him.

"Nassir," Malik greeted the man, and rose. "My friend here has a few injuries on her hands. Do please check them out."

The old man gruffly sighed, thinking why they couldn't come to him instead of him coming to them when it wasn't a life-or-death situation.

"Show me your hands, girl," he roughly said, his voice deep. Farah placed her hands on his, and he tightened his hold, inspecting them. "Hmm, not bad, not bad. Let me see now. Hmm."

Farah pursed her lips, tossing Malik a look. He leaned against the table and crossed his arms, giving her a grin. She side-smiled before looking away.

"Hmm," the healer continued as he brought out ointment from the pouch on his back. He opened the lid, gave it to Malik, swept his fingers into the substance, gave the glass bottle to Malik, and then rubbed it smoothly on her injuries. It was cool on her burning skin, and she hissed.

"Careful, careful, careful," she muttered out.

Once all her injuries were relishing in the effects of the ointment, the healer brought out bandages and wrapped them around each of her fingers.

"Hmm," he said, and she took it as his _we're finished_.

"Thank you," she said genuinely. "But can you please lend me a few ointments and bandages for the other days? That is, if you don't mind?"

The old man released a gruff. "Here," he grabbed the glass bottle from Malik's hand, closed the lid, and handed it to her with a few white bandages. "These shall suffice for a little while longer. If it isn't enough, come to the West wing. The guards shall show you which chamber."

With that he took off, releasing another gruff as Malik said, "Thank you, Nassir."

Once the healer was gone, Farah faced Malik. "Well, you have been such a sweetheart. See you around, _friend_." She grinned, empathizing on the word _Friend_ just like the time he uttered it when telling Nassir of the friend who was injured. In all honesty, it sparked a warm feeling inside her, and she was glad he saw her as one—despite their peculiar and weird past.

He inclined his head down an inch. "Until our next encounter, stranger."

Farah _tsked_, but, still grinning, walked away from him and down the stairs.

When she was making her way to the kitchen, her ears suddenly caught the sound of an animal... meowing. Then her ears twitched and, her brows furrowing, she followed the sound outside the castle. The meows decreased in volume, and she went back inside the castle. But then, as she walked closer to the kitchen, the louder the meows echoed. And when she stood positioned before the metal door, clearly hearing the cat purring behind the barrier, she felt her insides go giddy all of a sudden.

Opening the door, Farah, smiling broadly, couldn't wait to shower the little bastard with all her love, and she, with exciting energy, literally flew into the room. "Do I hear a—"

Two things caused her to stop dead on her tracks.

One, there was another figure in the room. A figure she recognized with every fiber of her being. And when he turned around at the sudden intrusion, he, too, stilled in evident awareness.

And two, there was a cat, yes. It was purring around his ankles and loving every second of it. But she didn't give the creature much heed, no. She, wide-eyed, stared at the man before her.

When the room thickened and pulsed with... something, Farah's armour began to tremble. No, no, no. Be strong. Back straight, chin up, she commanded herself. Straightening her spine and tilting her chin up in stubbornness, she faced him. Even arched a perfectly shaped brow at him. Yes. Like that.

Then, when the cat meowed again, begging for attention, her gaze snapped down at it. It was white and fluffy and had sparkling emerald eyes. And the more she stared at it, the more... familiar it looked to her until, finally, she gasped, and her hand flew to cover her gaping mouth.

"No," she suddenly let out in disbelief. No, this wasn't happening. Was that—? Could that—?

"Is that Dania?" she croaked out, facing the assassin. He shocked her by simply shrugging.

"It is her," was his plain reply.

"Oh my God!" she squeaked, common sense leaving her completely. She marched over and grabbed Dania from below Altair's form. She released a strong meow, and began to silently struggle in her arms for release.

"It is her, isn't it? Hey, baby," she let out softly, tears pricking at her eyes. "Hey, sweetie, remember me? Remember your mommy?"

Lifting Dania in front of her face, she smiled broadly. When those indifferent, almost bored, eyes settled on her, her little ball of fur stilled for the briefest second. And when she rubbed her nose against her little, wet one, Dania began purring. Then meowing. And then began to stretch her limbs to inch closer to her. That only meant she recognized her scent!

"She remembers me!" Farah laughed out, hugging Dania close and scratching her tummy, under her chin, and behind her ears. "She really does!"

She gave the people around the room the most happiest look she could muster, and they, too, laughed back at her reaction. Even Altair had the faintest smile on his face.

"Oh, you're so cute. Yes, you are," she spoke in a mushy, childish tone. "I missed you so much. Yes, I did." She rubbed Dania's chin and kissed her white, furry head numerous times. Dania kept on straightening and turning, trying to rub her face against Farah's. And she let her. Dania purred loudly and deeply, rubbing her mouth and face this way and that. She licked Farah's face, her lips, and Farah kissed her on the mouth. Dania nipped at her gently with her teeth, and Farah laughed out loud.

"My baby!" she exclaimed in utter bliss. "I missed you so much! I thought we'd never meet again, or that you'll never bring dead rats to my room! Mommy loves you so much. Do you love mommy back?" She stared at Dania, and her cat rubbed her head against her face in approval. Farah smiled, hugging her tightly. "Oh, I could squash you to death right now!"

When done reuniting with her cat, she gave her attention to the people in the room, and was shocked to realize they were all still staring at her. "Oh, you guys are still here?"

Zainab, Hamza, and Maryam chuckled at her, while Haroon only smiled. And Altair, well, showed no emotion. The faint smile was already long gone.

He instead turned to Maryam, saying, "Are my orders for the celebration clear?"

They all nodded in unison. "We will prepare generously," Hamza offered.

Farah frowned. "What celebration?"

They ignored her. O-kay. When she looked at Zainab, the girl tossed her a I'll-explain-later look. She nodded at her.

"My gratitude to your efforts," Altair said, inclining his head down in respect. Then, turning on his heels, he walked out of the kitchen.

That seemed to struck Farah as a big surprise, and she suddenly shook her head in sheer puzzlement. After weeks of absence, he waltz in all nonchalant, and he doesn't spare a little of his time to acknowledge her decently? Okay, alright, she got where that treatment surged from, but what of Dania being here in Masyaf? A part of her said "This was not okay", another said "Just let him go", while the third said "Hell no".

"Excuse me," she said, and followed Altair out with Dania still in her arms. She saw his back disappearing from the end of the corridor.

"Altair, wait!" she let out, and when he paused, turning sideways to toss a look back, she jogged up to him.

When she came to a stop before him, now taking in his features, she noticed how... fatigued he appeared. He rubbed between his eyes with his fingers, and then closed them.

"Okay, I'm not going to take all of your time. Just most of it," she teased, but then instantly straightened when he opened his eyes and focused on her intently. It was more of a glare than anything else. O-kay, message received. No teasing. "And by that I clearly meant thirty seconds or so. Honest."

"What do you want?" he asked her wearily, like he had no strength to even talk.

She wanted to ask him a lot of questions, she wanted to have a small talk, she wanted to ask where he was all this time, where he went, but mostly, she wanted to ask why he'd gotten Dania with himself to Masyaf. If that was the case. Perhaps the Rafiq did? But she never spotted him anywhere.

But despite it all, Farah just sighed, waving his questions—and her own—away. "You know what? It's nothing. I just wanted to... thank you." And then, Farah smiled. Genuinely smiled. And Altair slightly straightened, his eyes focused on her lips.

"You thank him too, right?" she questioned Dania in her mushy, childish tone. Grabbing one of her white arms, she waved it at Altair. "Offer your gratitude, Dania. He's the man that brought us together."

Staring down at her, Altair was silent. Then, lifting his hand, he gave Dania a little scratch below her chin—to which she purred. "She'd always wanted my attention, hence the reason why I brought her to Masyaf. She was never far off from me, but now she will never leave your side. I cannot say I'm pleased with that outcome."

At that bit of information, Farah lifted her head and stared up at him with an unrecognizable look. Taking in his tired look, his half-hooded gaze, the lines of tension abrading his forehead, and at the stubble that has grown a little blacker around his jaws, Farah felt her chest tighten oddly. Almost in... pity. Sympathy. Why? She hadn't the slightest clue.

She almost reached up to palm his cheek, to at least comfort him from whatever he was suffering from, but immediately shook the destructive musings away. That was a big No-No. She could never do that to him, not if she desired to be abhorred to the point of earning an actual death. But mostly, she had to guard herself.

So, straightening her spine, she said, "Well, I am her mother."

Offering a soft snort at her words, Altair turned away. "I presume there's nothing more to discuss?"

Just like that, it was over. Done with. He retreated back to his cold shell, and was suddenly miles away from her reach.

She swallowed, then licked her lips. So many thoughts raced through her, so many unsaid words, but she instead shook her head. "No. There's nothing more."

With a slow nod, Altair walked away, and she watched him until she could see him no more. She suppressed her disappointment, and exhaled. It didn't matter; his attitude towards her would not change anytime soon.

But the unexpected encounter left her feeling more... content than dissatisfied, and she was both gladdened and bombarded by the thought. With a small smile, she kissed Dania's head and turned around to walk back inside the kitchen.

That night, having Dania sleeping on her legs, Farah, the moment her head hit the pillow, closed her eyes and drifted off to sweet slumber almost instantly. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with her soft snoring, Dania's constant low purring, the thin whistle of the wind drifting in from her open window, the swishing and scratching of the branches of the trees outside as they swayed in the air, and the singing of the crickets outside.

While high above the Masyaf castle, in a cold, dark chamber stationed closely to the West wing, lay the assassin in his bed, the blanket only reaching his waist and leaving his bare torso vulnerable to the nipping coldness. He cared not. He restlessly tossed and turned, his mind attacked by so many things at once, he didn't know how to shut it down. He flipped on his side, on his stomach, on his back, but no position granted him the sleep he was terribly deprived of.

Hence, shutting his eyes but not his mind, the act continued until morning dawned and he was more enervated and distressed than ever before.

-x-


	24. Chapter 24

_**AN:**_ _I know I keep going and coming back but I really am trying (kind of) to not be gone for a long span of time. And believe me I know how it's like to wait for something to come out and be all WHERE IS IT? *TAKES OUT KNIFE* about it, so I apologize for keeping everyone waiting. It'll not be the last time, that's for sure. But I sincerely do care for you, my beautiful and awesome readers, so I'll try to post as much as I can._

_And also, I'm quite aware of the lack of intimacy in this story up until now, but I have to write in this manner, despite you__—my amazing readers'—opinions. I'm not saying there won't be any, because there will be, they will jump each other's bones I don't care, but the stalling is mostly because right now they are going through emotional difficulties. And I can't just skip over it and be like "Yeah, whatever, NOW KISS". It will seem fake and unreal but most of all, I will feel like betraying my characters (I'm not claiming ownership to Altair) and their personas. I want to get it out of their system as much as mine. On the side note, Altair is a very complex character even in the gameplay. He's a man with principals and rules, and arguing with him is not something easy. That's why I'm writing what I am so as to, bit by bit, inspire another side of him that is not far from the character he actually is. He has high walls, has towering standards, and Farah is going to break each down and meet each one of them. Perhaps even exceed. So have a little patience, I'm very close. And so are you. _

_Regarding her appearance, __**WhiteTear**__, I've mentioned it couple of times in the past chapters. She has long thigh-length black hair, creamy-white skin, big brown eyes, and a body not lean or firm, but plump, soft and curvy in all the right places—as Altair stated it to be. She's of average height, because in chapter three or so, she states Altair to be a head taller than her. I hope this still helped! :) Thank you for your review!_

_Thank you all for really understanding and still supporting this story! Welcome my new readers, you're in for some weird treat! No, really, I thank you all for your support—but you're not here for that._

_Without further ado, enjoy!_

What We Can't Have

Chapter Twenty-Four

1191, Masyaf

Farah, throwing her arms over her head, stretched like her lazy cat, releasing a small sound in the process, and rose to a sitting position. She had the best—no, not best. None could top that moment when she awoke in Altair's arms. So _one_ of the best—sleep she'd ever had. The thick red blanket tumbled down to her waist, and she craned her neck side-to-side, flexing the muscles.

"Mmm," she sighed out as one of the bones cracked. Eyeing her open window, she was surprised to see the sun already up and about, shooting streams of sunrays into her chamber.

Wait, what time was it?

Springing up from the bed, she walked to the window and gazed outside, and nearly hissed at the sun. Too bright. But, seeing its timing position in the sky, she calculated it was most assumingly past eight. She was struck at the thought of waking up late than actually worrying about being late to her daily duty. Well, there wasn't a specific time when she should start but only when she should finish. She could finish before the sun sets.

Stretching, she went away from the window and made her way to the bathroom. The sudden sound of a jump and then the soft pads of paws on the ground grabbed her attention, and she, with a smile, glanced back. Dania immediately rubbed her potato-shaped body around her ankles.

"Good morning, baby," Farah said, bending over to scratch her small, round head. "You look so pretty. Give mommy some time to look just so, and we'll have breakfast together. What do you say?"

Dania purred, still brushing her figure from one leg to the other. "I like that answer."

Oh, great. She was having a one-sided conversation with her cat. It didn't matter; Dania was with her. Something that she'd had from her past, something to remind her that not all was lost in the midst of the horror and chaos. A little reminder of her mother. She loved the idea of it. But what gladdened her heart was not simply that idea but also the thought of Altair bringing Dania with him.

Why had he done so? She could've stayed with the Rafiq, but no. She was here. Maybe just like her he needed a reminder that not all was lost? When her heart fluttered and her belly quivered at that mere thought, Farah shook the feelings off. That was improbable; perhaps he did so in attempts to not forget the betrayer, and kept Dania around as a constant reminder. Or he simply was a cat person, and who could deny this white ball of fur?

Giving her head another scratch, she strode into the bathroom and washed up. After a long moment, she emerged and dressed in tight black slacks, a long navy-blue tunic that reached just above her knees, her boots, and then her thick black cloak. Braiding her hair and then rolling it up above her head, only allowing a few silky strands to tumble down around her face and neck, she whistled to Dania and both exited the room.

Walking to the kitchen and avoiding the eyes of the residents here—by residents, she clearly meant the assassins—she softened her palm against the metal door of the kitchen and pushed it open. Dania entered before her, getting herself ready for some food.

She poured her some water into a small bowl and gave a few, tiny pieces of meat. She chewed the substance down whilst releasing a comical "Nyam, myam, myam" sound.

There was no one in the room, but to her relief she spotted a few bowls and plates of food ready on the table, and thanked whoever prepared it for her.

Sitting on the chair, with a queer yet contented smile, she helped herself to some white, salty cheese, red, juicy and cut tomatoes, butter and bread, and hot tea. There were also olives, and she ate them with the cheese. Different tastes exploded in her mouth—sour yet sweet, bitter yet juicy—and she sighed out in abundance. Not a minute after she emptied most of the plates, she heard a gasp behind her.

With her mouth full and in the process of chewing, she looked around her shoulder. Zainab had a horror-struck expression stuck on her face. "Please tell me you did not just eat whatever was on the table."

"My mouth is full, what do you think?" Farah retorted by pointing to her mouth that was, indeed, stuffed.

Zainab palmed her forehead in a "We're dead" manner.

Still chewing the pieces of bread, cheese, and tomatoes, Farah asked, "Why? Was it yours? Hamza's? But I thought you guys left this for me."

"Oh, no! No, this isn't mine or baba's! It's—" her words were cut short when a figure walked into the room, stopping right next to Zainab.

Farah's eyes almost instantly widened, and she began coughing. Crap! Covering her mouth, she chewed as fast as her jaw would allow her, and finally—a humiliating eternity later—she swallowed the food. Wiping her mouth and face with her hands to make sure no crumbs or remnants of any kind remained, she, gaining much needed courage, turned in her seat.

And, oh, hell. Her heart almost instantly kicked up its speed at the mere sight of him. Hood down, raven hair a little mussed above his head, hawk orbs alike melted gold, luscious lips frowning at the edges, muscular and brawn body draped with his silvery robe and deadly weapons—he was lethality incarnate. And beauty. Oh, the beauty. Calm yourself Dovaros, she lectured herself. This is not the time to awe upon him.

Altair gazed down at her with slight glower. He was more confused than discontented by the sudden situation. But when his eyes looked past her shoulder and spotted the empty plates, his long lashes narrowed and _then_ he stared down at her with immense displeasure.

"On the bright side," she began weakly, trying to break the tense silence. "That was the worst breakfast I've ever had. I did you a solid by saving you from such a meal."

"I prepared it," he bluntly replied, eyes still narrowing. "And you shall never insult a man's meal."

Oops. Wrong words.

"Hence that's why," she continued, attempting to gain an airy posture while her heart still hammered against her ribs. "I will cook you something better. Right, Zainab?" She suddenly turned her attention to the girl, and Zainab stuttered before hastily nodding her head. "Y-Yes! We will cook you something much better. I'm not saying what you did was bad, no. Not at all. But please, master, have a seat." She gestured towards the table in a hasty manner, and with her eyes told Farah to get her ass up.

"Oh, yeah," she shot out, and jumped to her feet.

"Zainab please get the pan ready, I will get the necessities." Farah walked over to the shelves and from there, within a basket filled with hay and atop it freshly-laid eggs, she grabbed two and made her way to the tandoor. In the small opening, Zainab placed a low metal stance similar to a grill, and below it sparked fire with the help of woods and twigs.

Farah took over from there on and, cracking the two eggs and mixing it with the cheese in a bowl, she, by putting all the ingredients on top two cut pieces of bread, placed them above the grill. When they were baked and the cheese melted and the eggs cooked, she took them out and placed them on a plate. She whispered a command to Zainab to clean up the table, to which the girl obeyed, and, cutting fresh tomatoes around the breads, walked over to the table and put it before Altair.

He stared down at it.

"This," she said, pointing. "Is the real deal. We call this Princesses in Bulgarian, a very typical breakfast meal, you can say. You can also do it with minced meat."

While Zainab put out the fire and cleaned around a bit, Farah took a seat at the table, glancing at Altair for feedback as he took one slice of bread and brought it close to his mouth. She licked her lips, her expectancy heightening. He parted his lips, bared his gleaming teeth, and bit down on the crunchy bread. Heat wafted out of the bread and cheese, but he paid it no heed. He bit out a piece and munched it down.

She raised her eyebrows in question, a small smile tugging at her lips as she did so. "How do you like it?"

He shrugged, swallowing. "Delicious."

Taken-aback by his remark, and quite flattered and suddenly feeling a little—okay, fine. _A lot_—giddy, she wrapped her fingers together. They were hidden by the cloak's sleeves and were not bandaged. And for no apparent reason, she also did not want him to see them as they currently were. Okay, fine, she didn't want his appetite to go by chancing a look at their disfiguration.

"So," she started instead as he ate her prepared meal. This was not something she ever imagined happening. To be truly honest, he confused her. He succeeded at avoiding her for more than three weeks, came out suddenly, was weary-looking—even now—and presently sat before her in a way indicating nothing ill transpired between them. But it was false. The only reason he was tolerating her now was because she ate his breakfast.

Was there really no chance for them to be friends again?

Should she give it a try, right here and now?

Farah slowly straightened. Why not? Here he was, sitting before her in all his glory, and here she was.

Licking her lips, she opened her mouth, closed it, looked around the room and realized Zainab was gone, and opened it once more. "So," she said for the second time, but Altair did not glance her way. He was already on his way to eat the second piece of bread. _My time is running out, I need to do this fast_. Quick! Say something impressing!

But her mind came out blank.

"So, uh, that celebration you were mentioning yesterday. What's it all about?" Round of applause for Farah. She managed to sprout a decent conversation. Zainab had told her of the celebration that'd take place sometime in the coming months, and it was one that rejoiced the forming of the Creed. They did it every year in a specific date the Order was established. The tradition had been passed on over the years, and now she'd get to witness it with her own eyes. Zainab said it would be a beautiful, energetic and exalting event. She was actually looking forward to it.

Knowing enough, Farah still asked in attempts to get his attention.

"It is a chosen day that celebrates the forming of this Creed," he replied, not even looking at her. And then stopped. Silence once again settled around the table as he began eating again.

Farah nearly exhaled in building frustration but stopped herself. "Well, and then what?" she questioned in quite evident desperation.

Altair finally met her gaze, his golden eyes grabbing onto hers. "And then we celebrate," he simply stated.

This time she allowed the frustrated sigh to escape. "Sounds so fun," she offered dryly.

After finishing his meal, he pushed the plate aside. A sudden emotion attacked her from nowhere, weighing her shoulders down, and she realized it to be disappointment. He was done. That meant their time alone was finished. _I should've made more_, she thought with regret. _More bread more time._

"There will be dancers, music, foods of all kinds, sweets of all kinds, and you will be amongst the crowd enjoying the performance given to you. There will come noblemen, our great allies, from over the lands, and we shall celebrate together. That's what will take place. Did I answer your questions now?" Altair offered, facing her.

Farah's mouth was parted, but then she immediately shut it and nodded her head. "Yes. Yes, you did."

"I know what you're trying to form here, woman," he began, gaining her attention. "It isn't going to happen. We are not friends. I thank you for the breakfast, but that is it. Do not miscommunicate my silence to friendliness."

Farah's brows slightly knitted in the middle, and she frowned. Not from anger or displeasure but of slight hurt and confusion. Here he was again, rebuffing her.

"I," she started, inching closer to the table. To him. "I know what my action has brought upon you. Us. But if there is anything I owe you, let me make it up. I'm already trying."

Altair frowned at her. "Owe?"

She nodded unsurely.

"Female," he began with a stern yet determined tone. "You owe me nothing. Why ever did you think you owed me something?"

Farah was shocked. He clearly did not utter those words, did he? Of course she owed him! Was he making a mockery out of her? If he spoke true, then what has she been doing all this time, cleaning and scraping the floors until her fingers bled? What was all that for if not for the sake of owing up to him?

"Do not jest with me," she firmly let out. "This isn't funny."

"No," he grit out, his expression darkening. "You do not commit that error. I speak the truth."

"Then what of the work you've had me doing?" she shot back, her confusion misleading to anger. "What of all the work I've been doing? Was it all not in attempts to make up for the mercy you've shown me?"

"I showed you mercy because you deserved nothing less," he shot back just as evenly.

His words both bombarded her and softened her, and both confused and angered her further. He spoke of mercy like she was deserving of it but refused to be friends with her? Showing mercy to her clearly indicated she was innocent at some level but he still treated her coldly and rebuffed her every chance he got?

"You say mercy? But I stabbed you!" Her anger was rising; this was not a wise thing to do but she couldn't stop it.

"And I respect you for that."

"What?" she sputtered, baffled. "Respect me for... it? But I nearly killed you."

"I know."

She closed her eyes, trying to decipher this tangled mess they've thrown themselves into. One. Two. She counted, holding her breath. Then exhaled, and opened her eyes. "You respect me because I nearly killed you but you do not desire to be my friend because I wronged you but yet you state I deserved nothing but mercy!"

"Mercy, because you, in the end, desired freedom. I could not fault you for that. I respect you acting the way you did because I can identify with it. I'd have acted sooner, even. But you mistake my mercy for a sign to start a new slate. Yes, you were pardoned, but that is how far it goes. I have given you what you desired, but trust you I will not. Even a fool should know better."

Farah, still shocked, still dumbfounded, stared at him. "Why do you blame me for something you clearly identify with, then?" she asked softly yet evenly.

Altair narrowed his eyes. "There is a vast difference between identifying and blaming. I identify with you because you did what you did to survive. But I blame you not, female. I have told you that before."

"Resent me?"

"No. I have told you that, too."

She shook her head. "If you do not blame me, resent me, then why do you keep me at a distance? If blaming and resenting, two heavy emotions, you were capable of moving past, why can't you trust me?"

"Would you have?" he calmly questioned her, his eyes piercing through hers.

She was silent. Would she have? If he left her to bleed with no aid around, cutting the threads of trust she'd linked to him once and for all, and taking leave without even a proper goodbye, would she have trusted him afterwards?

She shakily breathed out. "I would have given you a chance, at the very least."

Altair chuckled but with no trace of humour. "Is this not chance? Have I not given you the chance to walk about, the chance to form new bonds with people, _my_ people, have I not given you the chance to make a living for yourself? Have I not given you a chance at freedom?"

She swallowed, then stared at him in silence. How could she make him understand? How could she make this man, this stubborn man, comprehend that it wasn't the chance she wanted with others but only with him? "I meant I would've given _you_ a chance. The chance to once again be my friend."

"Friend?" Altair said with slight mockery, tilting his head to the side. "Now why would you want to be friends with a killer, woman?"

"It's more than that and you know it," she softly whispered out, her eyes never leaving his face.

He shrugged indifferently. "Perhaps it so. But let us end it, I am not you. I might forgive my enemies, maybe forget them, but trust them? No. You ask for too much. I simply do not have the time to quarrel with you."

He was standing up to leave. But before he turned to go, Farah quickly said, "How can I earn it back?"

He didn't face her. He stood like that in complete silence before, finally, letting out an even, "You cannot."

This time she chose her words wisely. "Then I owe you."

At that, he turned around. "How many times are you going to make me repeat myself? You owe me nothing."

"Yet I still serve and for what...?"

"By all means, woman. If you have work you'd rather do, then go about your day doing it. I simply found you a place among the servants so you will not starve yourself to death."

"You confuse me!" she shot out, rising to her feet, and took a stand before him. His heat, his masculine scent enveloped her, and she couldn't help but shudder in delight. He, too, was aware of their proximity. His nostrils even flared as he inhaled deeply. "If you do not trust me, nor give me the chance to earn that trust back, and state that I don't owe you anything but still refuse my friendship, it leaves me only with one option: I owe you. I do. I must. You... You've shown me kindness and mercy, those things did not come easy for you. Give me the chance to make it up to you. Please."

Altair stared down at her. Having his hood down, revealing his dark strands in their dishevelled manner, as though he run his fingers through them numerously, once again took Farah by her very heart even when she tried her hardest to repel the thoughts. The corner of his lips was tugged down in a scowl. His slashing eyebrows were forming a frown in the middle, and his body stood as rigid and stiff as one can be.

"I don't have the whole idea of what kind of family you were raised in. Was is it so they were more cruel than amiable, or maybe you received so little kindness that when you did acquire it, you felt inclined to own up to it, because you saw yourself undeserving of it? But that is not the case here. I did what I did not in means to be repaid for but simply because it was the right thing to do. Nevertheless, I do not want anything from you, not even your friendship. And know that one cannot force it upon someone unwilling."

Her throat muscles tightened, the wounds in her chest began to slowly tear open, and she hastily nodded, looking away. Her armour at the moment was a useless piece of iron. "You're unwilling," she croaked out, as if she understood it all. Oh, she did. She understood him perfectly well. She was forgiven, found faultless, but could not be trusted to be his friend. In other words, she was not worth the time. Overall, not even worth it.

He curtly nodded.

Farah breathed in quickly. "Okay," she said, showcasing no emotion. If that's how he wanted it, that's how he'd get it. "I owe you nothing. We shall be strangers anew like the first day we met." The memory of it came rushing back to her, and she barely stopped her lower jaw from quivering. They were sitting under a shade on a bench, and she'd offered him the first word ever spoken between them. She'd said "_Salam_" and after the passing of time, he'd returned the peaceful greeting.

When she focused back on him, she knew he was saluted by the memory as she had but he, without offering her another word, turned on his heels and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her.

"Okay," she said to herself this time, nodding. "I'm clearly getting in his way. I'm clearly better off being non-existent to him." She nodded again. Then, sternly clenching her jaw muscles, she, with great force, kicked the metal door shut. Pressing her back against it, she covered her face with her hands and released a groan both the combination of anguish and frustration.

Snatching her hands away, she faced the table and began cleaning it from the empty dishes. Within her there was turmoil but somehow, someway, she felt numb and senseless at the same time.

_I don't have the whole idea of what kind of family you were raised in_, he'd said. _Was is it so they were more cruel than amiable, or maybe you received so little kindness that when you did acquire it, you felt inclined to own up to it, because you saw yourself undeserving of it?_

Those words touched Farah to her very core, because no truer words have ever been spoken. Despite all the things he'd said, she saw no fault in this particular sentence he'd formed. She didn't realize the feeling until he mentioned it, and now she admitted that that was the case here. Of course she received little kindness, and when she was honoured with it, it felt surreal, unearthly, and so glorious, she _had_ to make up for it.

Now it all came back to her. When her father gave her even the slightest hint of a smile on his lips, she'd become so elated that she'd spend her entire day locked inside her room just so she could please him. When he wouldn't touch her for a day or two straight, she'd wonder if he changed his mind about her and would never beat her again and would spend her day cleaning his shoes, serving his food, and making up in whatever way she could to repay his shown compassion. Hell, she'd once even given him his whip with which he used to lash her with, and had accepted the beating given to her because... because it was the first time he'd called her _sweet daughter_.

She'd loved the endearment so much, had accepted it so whole-heartedly, not realizing that it was a mockery of her position, and had allowed the beating and the pain because her father saw her as sweet and as his own.

How wrong.

How _disgusting_!

Farah's shoulders violently shook and only now she realized she'd been sobbing with great force. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, scalding them, as she picked up the dishes from the table.

And now Altair said she deserved it. Deserved the mercy. The kindness. He said that she didn't owe him anything, and he did what he did because it was the right thing to do. _Nobody_ had ever said anything of the kind to her, nobody had even cared to. Not even her own mother.

_Just let it be_, her mother's voice echoed in her head. _Just let him take it all out and it will be over soon. I promise_.

Even when she didn't desire it, her mind suddenly dove into the memory of her father whipping her small frame. A burn on her forearm. A burn on her legs. A burn on her shoulders. The pain... the shame... the humiliation... the tears, the throat-scratching little screams...

A hand settled on her shoulder, and the word "Farah?" rang out.

At the sudden touch, at the heat of the hand, she flew back, her body tense and covered in cold-sweat, and she screamed in utter terror before falling on the floor and breaking all the dishes that were in her hands. Wide-eyed, she scrambled away from the person in fear.

"Please don't harm me, I didn't do anything!"

Footsteps sounded, and a face she didn't recognize came in her line of sight. Light brown eyes peered down at her in worry.

Lies. All lies! There was no worry in them; no warmth!

A hand reached out, and Farah, with an inaudible cry, shielded her face from the upcoming blow. She waited for it... waited a little longer... but nothing came. Instead, the hand gently palmed her face, causing her to look up.

No, she knew this person. The memory slowly faded into the back of her head.

"Z-Zainab?" she croaked out, confused.

The girl crouched low and palmed both sides of her face. "Are you okay?" she asked frantically and with evident worry. "I have never seen you like this. What happened?"

Speechless, Farah stared at her, and realized how lost she'd been in the memory where she could not longer differentiate what was reality and what was not. "I," she started. "I..."

Then she rose to her feet, Zainab rising with her. "I... was... It's nothing. Really. You just scared me, that is all. Do not worry. Oh, look at this mess," she said instead, looking down and around her. "I'm so sorry. I'll clean up."

"No," Zainab rushed out, stopping her. "I will. But are you sure you are alright, Farah? Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

Farah shook her head, hastily wiping her tears away. "No," she swallowed. "I, uh, was just taken by surprise. Thank you, Zainab. But really... I'm okay. I am. I will go do my duty, then. Thank you, again."

As she walked away, not even heating a bucket of water but getting a cold one straight from the water pump, Zainab stared at her with restlessness. She ignored the girl and exited the kitchen.

She was shaking and trembling, the effects of the memory still yet to wane. She tightly squeezed her eyes, and leaned against the cold, stony walls.

_It's all in the past_, she comforted herself. _He's gone. He's dead. He can't harm you anymore._

"He can't," she said in a whisper so her ears would hear it. So she would be convinced. Gradually, the trembles ceased, and her heart beat calmed down. Deeply inhaling and exhaling, she tried to forget the episode that occurred.

Gaining spirit and much needed strength, she straightened her back and walked all the way over to the West wing.

Passing the central base of the castle, then the stony hallways, both wide and narrow, she climbed up the winding staircase. As she gripped the handle of the heavy bucket and the wet mop in the other, she staggered a little as she ascended up the stairs. When she was almost at the top, a body, turning the corner, bumped against her shoulder, and her grip on the bucket shook and slipped, causing the bucket filled with water to tumble down the stony steps.

She gasped, nearly stopping herself from falling all the way down to the Start line. The person, releasing a curse, still kept his pace, and stomped down the stairs.

Uh, excuse me?

"Hey!" Farah shot out, angry and furious. She didn't need this right now. The person—the bastard—stopped at the tone of her voice and turned around.

She gasped for the second time. It was that man, the bearded bastard, from the first day she came here. He was the one who held that golden sphere and nearly cost everyone their life.

"Oh, it's you," she said in a flat, dry tone. She had the sudden urge to push him down the stairs just alike he did Altair from that height. And her poor bucket.

His eyes narrowed, the muscle in his jaw twitched, and he slowly ate up the steps separating them with his long strides.

"Watch your tone, underling," he ground out. "Or I'll gladly teach you."

Underling? Underling! Oh, the nerve!

"I suggest you watch yours," she ground out just as equally.

He gasped. Actually gasped at her rudeness. "You dare talk to your senior in that manner?"

"I can dare talk to anyone however I want," she replied with slight smug in her tone. "And you're not my senior. I don't see anything great in you that I don't already have."

Another gasp. Another twitch from his jaw. "I'm an assassin," he barked out. "You are merely just a cleaner. Show some respect!"

She crossed her arms against her chest. "Only if you do."

"Excuse me?"

"I wish I could but you dropped my bucket of water, offered no apology, and now I need you to go fetch me a new one. Only then will I begin to respect you."

He glared down at her, running his tongue over his upper teeth.

Farah, equally as stubborn, faced him. "Do you really think staring at me will make the bucket fill its own water, climb up these stairs, and cling back to my hand? Believe me, I tried that. It doesn't work."

He ignored her and asked instead, "Who are you? I haven't seen your face anywhere."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, since you won't be meeting anyone like me in, let's say, another hundred thousand years, I'll do the honour of introducing myself. I'm Farah."

He frowned. "I think I do know you. You are the woman who was kept in a cell, am I right?"

Farah, going for a nonchalant expression, merely shrugged. "You guys don't keep a lot of women in cells, huh? It appears everyone knows me as the woman who was kept in a cell. Maybe that should be my nickname: the Cell Woman."

Looking at his face, the faintest twitch from his lips caught her attention. Amusing him, was she now?

"I'm Abb—"

"Abbas, I know," she interrupted him. "You see, I know you, too. You are the man who held that powerful golden sphere in your hands and nearly robbed everyone their life."

Gone was his amusement. Instead, his expression turned downcast, and his lashes lowered in what appeared to be shame. "I guess it is wise to call me the Mad Robber," he muttered solemnly.

Despite their current situation, Farah found something funny in his words and couldn't stop the laugh that escaped her chest. He looked up at her.

"Why do you laugh? Ah, you mock me." He nodded his head knowingly.

"You're funny," she made out with a stretching smile. "But, alas, I mock you not. Let's get to the matter at hand. Will you help refill my bucket? And by that I clearly mean I will wait here until you bring it to me."

He shook his head, and _tsked_ under his breath. She knew she was poking at his pride like a child with a stick, but it was his fault. He didn't watch where he was going, spilled the bucket of water everywhere, and didn't even offer an apology. And when called out to, boldly insulted her status. She wasn't going to feel guilty. Not anymore.

"And if I don't?" he questioned evenly. "Are you going to hurt me?"

She narrowed her eyes. "If you know what's good for you, I suggest you get going."

"Or else?"

"Or else I'll swat your face with this wet mop in my hand alike a mother with a pair of slippers. Does that sound fun?"

He chuckled, giving his head another shake. Only then did she realize he was testing her. Almost... studying her. "You are intriguing."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you going to stand there and point out the obvious?"

Another smooth chuckle. This guy wouldn't stop, would he?

"Okay, ma'am," he said, palms up. "I surrender to your mop-swatting threat. I will owe up to my mistake."

She bowed like a proper lady, and he stilled for the briefest moment, his eyes catching the efficiency of the act.

"That was almost... brilliantly done," he praised. She graced him with a smile.

"Practice gives way to perfection," she commented, not ready to reveal a stranger her past. They couldn't know she was a lady and of the elite. Now, she was living a new life. A better one, she assured herself. Her past defined her not.

"You practice a lot?" he asked quizzically.

She shrugged. "Only when bored."

A lazy smile stretched his lips, and he, with a sigh, said; "I shall be back soon. Do not go anywhere."

"I don't have anywhere else to go, anyways." It was true. She didn't.

Oblivious to the meaning behind her words, he stomped down the stairs, grabbed the empty bucket, and disappeared around the corner. She sat down at the top of the stairs, rested her chin on her fisted hands, and waited.

After a while, she heard the stomp of boots ascend the stairs, and she glanced down and spotted a black head. Abbas reached the top of the steps and handed her the bucket filled with water.

She rose, and took hold of it. "Thank you."

He crossed his arms against his chest. "Now do I have your respect?"

"Hmm," she feigned thinking. "You're getting there."

He nodded. "Good."

With that, he turned around and walked down the stairs, and Farah, with a smile on her face, shook her head and went to perform her duty.

-x-

Sitting at his working desk with Malik standing at his side, informing him of essential details and improvements that occurred in his absence, Altair rolled the blade in his hand finger to finger. He listened attentively but at the same time thought of another matter.

"—the Cadets are learning fast; they will perform the Leap of Faith soon. To set example, I think it wise you perform it before them, Altair."

He barely even nodded, his gaze set upon the shelves straying far from Malik's figure.

"I also wrote to the blacksmiths of Damascus, Jerusalem, and Acre for new forged swords, and they will arrive in a month's time. The uniforms are set into action, as well. They are being sowed by special hands right down in our Masyaf village," his second-in-command informed, pose straight and words clipped.

Altair stopped the dancing of the blade and instead focused on his friend. "There are certain matters I wish to speak to you about."

Malik curtly nodded. "Of course. What are they?"

He rose to his feet, sheathing his blade to its place on his waist craftsmanship, and walked over to the wide windows. The birds and pigeons in the cages twittered and ruffled their wings, causing the boxes to rattle a little. Cold wind blew in from the windows, caressing his face and filling the office space. His ears twitched as the papers and scrolls on his desk shuffled.

"Halt the project on the attires," he started, not facing Malik but instead the garden outside. The trees were shedding their leaves, the lush, green grass was wilting, revealing the mud underneath, and grey clouds hovered above Masyaf. He spotted a few black birds flying up above the sky. The migrating season has begun, it seemed. Rain would still come, and then snow. That would stall his plans a little, but it was expected.

Footsteps resounded from behind him, and he felt Malik's presence settle on his side. "What do you mean?" came his confused voice.

In his absence, he had done some critical thinking, and knew the points he'd settle were essential to the Creed and its matters. They could not continue in the way Al Mualim had. Or rather, he could not. After the mission with the Nine, the rising stature of the Templars, and Al Mualim's deceit, he had come to one conclusion: reformation.

"My mission with the Nine had opened and presented situations in need of definite altering. We cannot and will not follow the footsteps of our previous mentor, Al Mualim. The circumstances have drastically changed; we need to regroup everyone and start afresh."

"Afresh? Regroup everyone?" Malik echoed his words, confusion still lacing his tone. "Altair, explain, my friend. I've lost you."

"I will talk, Malik. Worry not. But do not interrupt until I'm finished; you need to hear everything until the very end." Altair slightly tilted his body to the side, meeting his friend's eyes and acquiring the needed assurance, and once more faced the garden outside.

"The Templars are in move, I'm not mistaken in this case. They have goals and aims that are far nefarious than we could handle if we do not redirect our course. We need to stop them, put an end to their plans. They wish to rule up in the skies, they wish to take away the freedom of the people, and our Creed has not been constructed but for such dire situations. And we cannot stop them if we continue the way we are now."

Malik nodded. "What do you suggest we do, then?"

"Our Creed and assassinations were more public than secretive and I want it to be the latter. Cryptic as it could get. The more underground we venture, the harder it shall be for our enemies to spot and clock us. We'll start by abolishing the uniforms. They are an instant giveaway. The cities already know us as the Men in White Robes. The arsenals shall not change. Each level will gain the required prize. The second is the removal of the finger. I prohibit it."

"But Altair—" Malik started but was cut off.

"It is unnecessary. The loss of one finger does not prove anything except the nature of its inaneness. It was ordered so because custom of the assassins demanded it, not because it gave us any aid. Know this, Malik. Our duty is to the people, not the custom."

"But how shall the assassins use their Hidden Blade? The construction of it does not allow the ring finger to stay."

Altair nodded, watching the assassins below in the garden shuffle around the space. They conversed and some even read books below trees and on top of benches. "I've redesigned its structure, hence the reason why I require its abolishment. I will show you the final work once it is completely finished."

It was the truth. The Apple of Eden aided him in acquiring much needed answers.

"How?" Malik's shocked voice filled the space. Then, shaking his head, he said, "Never mind. The answer just came to me. Well, what is next?"

"Next is the spreading of our Creed across the globe. The Apple has revealed me the map of the world, and I study it every day. Our allies in the other lands, the ones I wrote to when I became the new mentor, are to come in the approaching months for the celebration. I will need their help if I am to proceed with this last plan. The more we spread to other lands, the better and faster it is for us to learn of Templar activities—and stop them. I'm sure Europe isn't the only vast continent they're stationed in. They will spread, and we, too, shall with them."

"I understand," his friend said.

"Good," Altair said, turning to him. "I want you to send out letters to every assassin on mission and demand they retreat. Regroup everyone here, and when done, inform me. I will tell them of these plans."

"It won't be easy," Malik said, frowning. "They won't easily abide, and you know it."

He did know it, and he was counting on it. His people were a stubborn bunch. "I'm aware, Malik. But these chances are to be taken, there is no other way. We must revolutionize our Order."

Malik gave a jerky nod. "I understand. I will get to writing soon. Concerning other matters, we have collected taxes from the people, and I gave the order to set out the caravans. It is wiser to acquire the needed vegetables and fruits and other ingredients before the weather gets worse."

Clasping his wrist behind his back, Altair gave his approval. "Good. They'd be able to prepare for the coming celebration earlier."

"I thought as much," Malik sighed out, and then ground him with a look. "Altair," he started, and he nearly groaned on the inside. He knew what Malik would remark on, and he was not in the mood to argue and explain. "You appear weary. Pale, even. Have you been eating well? Sleeping well?"

Did it really look like he was doing either well from the look on his face? "Sleeping and eating right can come later. I need to unveil many things, and our time is running short."

"If you continue, your life source will run short. Do not strain yourself too much. I'm aware of the efforts you are putting into this new strategy, and I greatly respect you for it, but resting once in a while will do you no harm. I, we, haven't seen you for more than three weeks. You retreat into your study room and reside there alike a cave man."

"What do you suggest I do, Malik? Our enemies are on the brink of acting, and you want me to sleep and eat away my time? I will manage, and so shall you and everybody here."

Malik sighed, shaking his head. "I don't even know why I tolerate you. Alright, but I will have Maryam bring you food so we know you're still breathing behind those closed metal doors."

The side of Altair's lips lifted, and he chuckled. "I will not depart from this world anytime soon. Duties bound me. Hence, worry not, my friend. And your efforts are greatly appreciated."

He, with a smack, rested his hand on Malik's shoulder, and both stared out the window.

"Look how Hassan walks about the garden," Malik pointed out with a lift of his chin, a lazy grin on his lips.

Altair, when he spotted the assassin, also grinned. The said man had a queer way of striding; shoulders drawn back, spine straight, and legs almost flying side to side as he stomped forcefully on the ground. He was conversing haughtily with another fellow assassin, his head held high. The young lad seemed to be stuttering, and Hassan came on him with viciousness. He was known for his infamous Viper tongue. One word, and he could bring a tear into even the toughest of men. He did once to Malik when they were young.

What was it he said? Ah, yes. _Malik, you eat Humus every morning, afternoon, and evening. Do you like it that much?_

_Yes, why?_

_Why, friend. Calm yourself, you're developing so many chins, we don't know which one you're going to talk out of next._

Altair, sitting next to Malik with other kids his age, had nearly choked on his own laughter. Symphony of laughter had filled the circle. Malik, a young lad who'd come recently to Masyaf from Jerusalem, had not been, well, a fit kid, and had blushed and walked away by wiping his eyes.

That was not the end, though. Hassan being, well, Hassan had directed his attack on young Altair.

_What of you?_ he'd asked.

_What?_ Altair had replied, giving him his ear.

_What of you, I asked_, Hassan had gritted out. _Are you deaf?_

_Ah, pardon me. I couldn't quite catch what you said from the triple chin you spoke out of_, was Altair's response. Another round of laughter had echoed, and Hassan had never approached him in that manner again.

Now, watching the said man, he shook his head in amazement as he spotted the fellow assassin fuming away from Hassan's well-pleased form. He'd obviously mocked the man for his own amusement.

"That damn bastard," Malik muttered beside him. "Never stops picking on people."

Altair chuckled. "He is not going to change."

"The day he does, I'll assume it also snowed in Hell."

Right after Malik said that, Hassan turned and began walking back inside the castle and, lifting his head, accidently met Altair's gaze from above next to the window.

Altair arched one brow up with the grin still lingering on his lips.

Hassan, stalling for the briefest moment, inclined his head down in respect. Altair did the same. Then, lifting his head proudly, he hastily shuffled away inside the castle.

Altair turned towards Malik. "I will leave you to your duties and return to mine. After my few examinations, I will come find you. We shall converse again."

Malik nodded. "I will be around."

Patting Malik's shoulder, he strode away. Going down the flight of curving stairs, he ventured towards the West wing. Passing a few hallways, taking a few turns, he then ascended all the way to the top. Just when he was about to take a turn towards his corridor, his ears twitched as he heard snapping mutters echoing from the hallway parallel to his. He walked over to the metal door separating the two hallways and slowly pulled it open. It widened with a small whine.

He stepped out into the hallway with the terrace, and spotted the last person he wanted to clash with. He stopped dead on his tracks, and his breath hitched in his throat. Gone was his restraint on his thoughts on the female. Whatever had transpired between them now came rushing to him, destroying his attained composure.

"Wait, no," the female was saying, her back to him as she scrubbed the floor. "Why am I to be blamed? It wasn't only I who had a play in that situation. I was provoked. Yes! Yes, that's it. I was provoked to act the way I did. But n_ooo_, all the blame should fall on my shoulders. Agh!" She smacked the wet mop on the ground. "So much thinking is detaining me from finishing my work early." And on she went scrubbing.

Two emotions attacked Altair at the same time. Unpalatable felicity and anger. The former he didn't wish to question at the moment. Or ever. But the latter he did. He was furious. Why was she scrubbing the floors? What was the meaning of this?

"No, but wait," she began, halting her fierce actions. "Am I really not that good enough? Well, for everyone's needed information, I'd make the perfect friend. You need someone to talk to, even in the middle of the night? I'm your girl. You're famished and are dying for some meal? I got you. Someone upset you and you wish to beat them senseless? I will hold them down for you."

She sighed. Then silence. Then the shake of her head. "It's his loss. Yes, his. Not mine."

Altair leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, examining her through narrowed eyes.

She was thinking of him.

Of her offer.

Of his refusal.

And she had every right to despise him. Hadn't he given her more than enough reasons? But nevertheless, he was not jesting when he stated she could not ever earn his trust back—because he wouldn't permit it. It was a hazardous thought to even contemplate it.

For the past weeks, he'd buried himself under the strain of work, occupying his mind with the Apple and its surreal capabilities. It was a necessity as much as it was an escape. It would seem he was running from her but that was not so. He was distancing himself. A much prolonged absence would suppress the forbidden sensations swimming in both their systems. More accurately, his.

His days and some of his nights were filled with the discovery of the Apple, but when weariness did weigh down on him, when his heavy lids finally drifted shut despite his resilience, he dreamt. It was the same dream every time he shut his eyes. He distinctly dreamt of her; of her dark chocolate eyes—the black of her pupils gobbling up the brown—her faultless creamy skin, and her breath-taking silky midnight hair cascading down her back and until her thighs. She always wore a long white muslin gown that pooled around her feet—always—and, in his sleep, would approach him. Delicately. Lovingly.

From his position perched atop the bed, she would, with a wicked gleam in her eyes, climb up the covers and, provocatively swaying her hips side-to-side, crawl to him.

He would rebuff her. Curse her, even, to get her going. But nothing he ever said unfazed her. The wickedness never abandoned her eyes, her curving lips, and he would then curse himself for daring to love it. For daring to wish for more of it. He would watch her, heat spreading low in his abdomen like blazing fire, and would deeply inhale the sweet jasmine air she always brought with herself.

Reaching him, she would then straighten, curving her spine inwards and arching up her bosom, and gently begin to drag up her dress. Her heated eyes would find his in the dark of the room, and hold it. Only when the softness of her milky-white thighs greeted him, she would halt in her ministrations and instead lift her leg to settle it beside his hip. And then she would cradle him, pressing her softest part against his hardest, and would slowly rock against him. Rock _with_ him.

First gently. Then deeply. Then roughly. Digging her nails into his skin, she would drag them down his chest until his abdomen, leaving red marks in their wake. He would cup her buttocks, urging her deeper into him, never getting enough. It would never be enough. She would throw her head back and moan out his name, and he would palm the back of her head to bring her down for a passionate kiss.

She would comply. He would part his lips, awaiting for her taste. Her sweet taste that would surely be the end of him. But just before her lips could clash with his, she would vanish. Vanish from above him and completely from the chamber.

And then everything would stop.

Just stop.

A kiss from her he would never receive. He would instead awaken, jolting in his seat, and would feel more flustered than ever. He would ache, and he would curse. And then would feel ashamed. Hence the distance. If he allowed her the chance to redeem the trust she'd lost, it would no qualm bring them closer. Closer meant distraction, and distraction meant the definite ruin of his Creed. He could never do that to his brethren. And he could never do that to himself. He would not fall bait to his own quenchable desires. Yes, they were quenchable. The female held no allure over him.

But he had to be cruel. Cold. There was no other way.

Shaking his head, he wished to end his train of thoughts—and hers.

"Female," he at last voiced out.

She literally jumped in her place, letting out a shriek. Quickly glancing around, her eyes clashed with his, and she gasped.

"Y-You!" she let out in horror.

Why the horror? It didn't matter.

"What do you think you are doing?" he questioned darkly.

She gradually rose to her feet, the mop forgotten on the floor. "I, uh, was just cleaning. And thinking. But mostly cleaning. Honest. I will be done before the sun sets, do not worry."

Cleaning? From her own volition? She must be jesting.

He growled. Then, moving away from the door, he made his way to her. He spotted her figure stiffen, spotted her gulp. She took a hesitant step back.

"You really don't need to come. I'm almost finished with the third floor. The window panes are done. See?" She pointed. "Or I can show you."

When he stopped in front of her, he took in her current appearance with one look. Brown boots, tight black slacks, a tunic that reached the top of her knees, a black cloak, and her hair braided and pinned to the top of her head. A few strands twirled down her neck and settled around her cheeks and on her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion and the cold, her brown pools were wide and gleaming, and her breath evidently shaky.

"I will not ask again. What are you doing all the way up here?" he demanded with a deep growl.

She straightened, as if taken-aback, and then narrowed her eyes. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe practicing how well I can stare at walls for five hours? You should know, you put me up here."

This time Altair appeared taken-aback. "The hell I did."

She gasped, her eyes going wide. "Oh, no you don't! You did too!"

"What?" he questioned.

"Oh, please. This is beyond ridiculous." She exhaled, and scratched her temple. His eyes instantly landed on her hand. Then her fingers. Something dark befell his expression. He suddenly straightened and, before he could stop himself, reached out and took hold of her hand.

She gasped. He cursed under his breath.

He did not prepare himself for the effect the touch would have on him. Her hand was white and plump, but her fingers red and covered with broken skin. But it was also smooth, delicate, and he noticed his body react to it. His chest ached just as his lower abdomen tightened.

"W-What are you doing?" she let out shakily. Breathlessly. "Let go."

"What is this?" he required with a dark look on her fingers, ignoring the sensations. He did hell of a good job these almost four weeks. He could do so now.

"My hand," was her clipped retort. "Now let go."

"Female," he warned.

"Farah is the word you're looking for," she nearly hissed. She tried to snatch her hand away but he held on tight.

He cocked his head to the side. "How did you get these injuries?"

She offered him a dry smile. "I'm a sadist."

"Answer. Now"

She exhaled, but her figure trembled under his touch. "From cleaning these floors."

"Floors?" he nearly barked out. Then, "Floors? There is more than one?" he calmly let out.

She focused on his face, her expression carrying a frown. "To my great knowledge, I believe we are on the third level of the castle. I assume there are other levels below us or else we are floating mid-air!"

He ignored her sarcastic retort and instead offered, "Get your things. When I asked Maryam to give you a job, I meant in the kitchen. Something milder. Not..." he gave her fingers another lookover, his stomach twisting at the sight of them. "Not this."

He made it his next duty to question Maryam until he got all the answers to his queries. "You're done working here."

"Excuse me?" she let out in shock.

"I'm putting you in the kitchen. You weren't meant to be up here. These chores are for the Cadets."

She arched a brow. "And I'm—what?—meant to be in the kitchen? Doing what exactly?" _Cooking. Cooking that delicious cheese-on-bread meal you've prepared me._

His grip on her cold hand tightened, and she jumped a little at the act. Her lashes fluttered as she held his penetrating gaze. A beat of silence passed. Then, "Anything but this," he lowly provided.

Her lips parted and, as though in a daze, she kept on staring up at him. A heartbeat. Two heartbeats. A whole minute passed. Then another two. Abruptly her expression changed, going from awe-struck to irritation laced with confusion. And hurt. Oh, so much hurt.

"No!" she shouted, snatching her hand away. "You can't do this. You can't act all concerned, because the last time I checked, you were not my friend."

Ouch. Deserve it, he next thought. "This is not up for negotiation," he coldly retorted instead.

"Well, I'm putting it up for negotiation!"

"And it's declined. You're done working here. Starting from tomorrow, I want you helping around the kitchen."

She stubbornly lifted her chin, crossing her arms against her middle as she did so.

He tilted his head the other way, examining her and the challenge she was attempting to present with her eyes and terribly failing.

"You insult me," she started with that same air of challenge. "You think me incapable, but I've worked for almost a month here. And I will continue doing so."

"Insult you? No. Doubt your capabilities? Never. But give you something better? That I can do. If you keep this up, you won't have any fingers left."

"My fingers are none of your concern. And just so we're clear, I'm super good at this. I'm staying here."

"No, you're going down to the kitchen."

"I don't accept it. I will not work in the kitchen."

"Then you will not have a job," he plainly stated.

She shrugged. "Then I won't have a job— Wait, what? You can't do that!"

He arched a brow. "Do you really want to find out?"

She stomped her foot on the ground like a child who has been denied her favourite sweet. "You are frus-trat-ing! And unjust! And cruel! Oh, how cruel!"

_I know_, he wanted to say. But it would be more cruel if he left her like this.

"You know what?" she started with a bitter laugh, and he knew right then and there that he'd awakened the wounded panther. "While we are on the topic of injustice and cruelty, I want to point out how unfair it was of you to blame me for everything!"

He frowned. "Everything?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Everything! You put the blame all on me while... while y-you"—she pointed—"were excused lightly!"

He crossed his arms against his chest, glaring at her pointed finger. She quickly snatched it away. "You hold me responsible for your own actions?"

"Partly, yes. If you had not stated you would kill me, dispose of me, after the mission, I would not have betrayed you so. You gave me no choice, and now hold me responsible!"

"If I felt myself play no part on that scene, I would have long ago killed you. The reason why you stand here before me is because I admit my part of it."

"Then why," she demanded, inching closer to him. "Why do you not give me the chance to earn that trust back? If you know I did what I did for survival, how could you deny me this? Why do you get to loathe and not I?"

They were back on ground zero, it seemed.

"By all means, woman. Hate me." Please. It would make everything easier.

She chuckled with no trace of humour, shaking her head. "It's easily said than done. I cannot despise you. I simply cannot. But if it helps," she started, focusing on his face again. She licked her lips, grabbing his attention, and timidly shrugged. "That day, my mother and I, we were... we, uh, were... planning on escaping. We wanted to start a new life." Another timid rise of her shoulder. "I thought while you battled with Edwardo, I could flee. But you ended his life too quickly that I felt so panicked, so lost, I acted on impulse. And I regret it until this very moment. Believe me, I really do."

Altair's throat clogged, and he glanced away from her entreating, almost pleading, eyes. He knew what happened to her family that night. After his visit to the bureau, after taking care of his wound, he'd ridden to her residence. He expected to find her there, maybe even kill her right then, but what saluted him was not what he expected. The house was dark, empty. No sign of the female. No sign of even life. What he did find, though, were men. Men he killed and disposed of afterwards.

Checking every room in attempts to find the female, he'd come across a body. It was her mother's. Bloody and dead. He knew not what the female endured that very night. He even thought her perhaps dead, but admitted his assassin instincts would never accept it that easily. She was alive. Somewhere. And he would find her.

"Let us end this conversation," he said, getting to the matter at hand. "I will speak with Maryam and ask her why she put you up here. I should've instructed her more clearly, I admit now, but nonetheless I should still question her."

The female frowned, her eyes glassed over. His indifference had clearly affected her. _Good_, he tried to convince himself but to no avail. _The colder you are the better._

She scratched her temple again, hastily looking away from him and sniffing. "Do not blame her. She asked me if I wanted to change it but I declined. And I will also decline your offer."

"It's not an offer; it's a demand. One that you'll meet. No arguments. Tomorrow, your affairs will be with the kitchen." Not giving her the chance to form a reply, he turned on his heel and walked away.

"You cant—! But I just said—! Ugh!" her complaints died away from the ever increasing distance between them. "You're unbelievable!"

His lips twitched and he, shutting the door behind him, went on to find Maryam.

-x-

1191, Damascus

Travelling one-hundred-and-forty miles from Jerusalem to Damascus, Sarah paced around the room she'd rented for the time being. Weeks had passed since her arrival to Damascus, and still no word. Before meeting Farah, it was here she had picked up the trail on the Assassins—also where she clashed with Malik—and thought it wise to start afresh from Syria. She went around the city, listening and trying to catch any word on the Men in White Robes. She went to the pubs, to the harems, to the markets, but returned empty-handed.

There was no trail.

There was nothing.

If only she could find their resting den; the mountain they emerged from and retreated to. But she did not have a map with her, and there were so many mountains in Syria, it would take her years before she rounded each one.

She swept her hands over her hair, releasing a gush of air from her mouth. "What to do, what to do," she muttered under her breath.

There was only one thing to do. Go back out to the streets.

She grabbed her travelling bag, grabbed the bowl of apples from the table next to the window showcasing the beauty of Damascus, opened her bag and poured the apples in, closed it, and strode out of the room. She returned a second later, grabbed the blanket, rolled it up, and stuffed it in her bag as well. What? It will get cold by night.

Shutting the door behind her, she walked the narrow hallway decorated by pots of long, towering plants and low tables containing small bowls of _Bakhoor_. It's rich, smoky scent filled the hallway, and she, picking up one of the woodchips wafting the scent of musk, oil and sandalwood, run it over her body. Once done, she hastily put it back. What? A girl had to keep her allure. How else was she going to get her questions answered easily?

Squaring her shoulders, she went down to the first floor and, paying her due with a few extra coins for the things she—cough—stole—cough—went outside to the hectic yet windy streets of Damascus.

She asked for her horse and the groom brought it to her after a short while and she, grabbing it by the reigns, gently lead it along the streets. She took out two apples, biting into one and giving the other to her horse. He munched it down with a snap of his big teeth. She rubbed his nose with a smile.

Okay, first things first. She'd head to the market and listen for—and ask—any news on her targets. Head on the mission, she ventured towards the said location. After a few hours of strolling aisle to aisle, Sarah, to her great frustration, once again came up empty. She was going to lose it!

No, no, calm down. We'll head to the harems. Once more putting her head in the game, she visited harems—by visited she obviously meant sneaked inside—and after having her ears abused by music and the moans and groans of men and women being pleasured, she snuck back out. Ew. Gross. I'm doing this for you, Farah, she thought solemnly. Only for you.

After her rigorous search, she finally went to visit the pubs. The first she visited was half empty, the second closed, and the third filling up due to the setting of the sun and the rising of the stars.

Having the hood of her cloak draped over her head, her features shadowed, she tied her horse to a wooden stance outside and entered the space filled with the scent of alcohol, strong wine, and few other toxic drinks. Men occupied the area, their chatter and laughter booming across the space, hitting the walls, and swinging right back.

Due to her wide cloak, her pants, tunic, and boots, she grabbed no one's attention. She moved closely to the wall, examining the chaos from a remote, shadowed corner, her ears twitching and her eyes searching.

Her eyes studied each man, his attire, his mouth and the words flying out of it, but no one uttered _assassin, murder,_ or anything remotely close to them. All they did was boast and crack inane jokes. So useless.

She turned her face to the right, then left, then slowly right, and then slowly left. Nothing, nothing, nothing. She nearly stomped her foot down. Just when she was about to turn it right again, a certain man caught her attention. The reason was shallow but at the same time agreeable, because he did not do what the crowd here was doing. He outstood the others despite his calm façade. Instead of participating, he actually walked towards a dark corner. Why was he—!

Sarah gasped, her back instantly straightening.

A man sitting at the shadowed corner—how could she have missed him? How?!—accepted something from the man and nodded at him. He took off, disappearing amidst the crowd, but the sitting one remained. He clasped what seemed to be a small scroll, and opened it. After a moment, he tore it to pieces, stood, and threw the remnants into the blazing fire of the hearth heating the room.

Another gasp escaped her, this one louder and more harsh.

No, no, no. Yes, yes, yes!

His attire! It was white; silvery white! He possessed an odd craftsmanship on his waist, a few daggers and a sword, and, with quite ease, swung his hood forth, shielding his face.

She could not believe her eyes. Were her efforts at last paying off? Was this her new trail? Please, please, please.

He had to be an assassin. The robe, the certain weapons, the hood—it all spelled out _I'm the one you're looking for_. No wonder she'd missed him; he'd blended himself so well with the shadows and so naturally that her brain skipped him right over.

The man began to move amidst the crowd, with the crowd, and he did so with great efficiency. If she was not going to act now, she'd lose sight of him.

Eyes on him, Sarah followed his figure out of the pub. Quickly unwinding the rope on her horse, she tugged him forth. The assassin turned to a corner, and she rushed after him. Hiding behind a wall, she watched his back. As he walked, so did she. Hiding, sneaking, avoiding. He soon stopped next to a barn, brought out a horse, and mounted it. She mounted hers.

After he'd ridden a few blocks, she ordered hers to bolt into action.

Wherever he was going, she would follow. Discretely, of course. He might as well lead her to their den.

Maybe where Farah was.

Yes, yes, yes! With new reawakened hope after weeks of constant disappointment, Sarah sped after the assassin.

-x-

_**AN:**__ the celebration is something I made up, just to be clear. The Order of the Assassins was established in an unknown period of time in history, but I used that to my advantage. Leave a review and tell me, well, what you think!_


	25. Chapter 25

What We Can't Have

Chapter Twenty-Five

1191, Masyaf

"Stupid!" She stomped her way down the stony stairs, carrying with her the bucket now filled with dirty water and the mop. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! 'Hey, woman,'" she mimicked Altair's voice in a deep, guttural way. "'I don't favour you, like, at all. But listen, I also don't favour you doing things. Why, you ask? Because I said so.'''

She nearly screeched in irritation. Whoa. Calm.

Instead, straightening her back and tilting her chin up, she went down the stairs like a proper lady. She would not allow his words and actions affect her because she was not going to go out her way to perform them. No matter his orders, she would not abandon her post. Suck on that!

"Here's a news flash, ass-ass-in. Oh. Would you lookie here, you being the leader and all, are perhaps the reason why there are two asses in the word that defines you. I should write that down," she next thought deeply. Then nodded. "Maybe even hang it on the wall in his room." She would. When she found exactly where he stayed, that is. But she continued in her rambling she'd kept up for the five/six hours she'd scrubbed the floors after his departure. "Just because you're the leader does not mean you can push people around. It's not nice."

No, really. Why was he acting like that towards her? Okay, she got where his dislike to her came from, but being all caring the next moment? His actions warm enough to melt the upcoming snow? Warm enough to, at least, make her belly, heart, and everything, really, within her flutter? It was not fair! He couldn't play with her emotions in that manner. If he was cold, then he should stay cold. Then at least she'd know where she stood with him. But when he acted like she... like she was the centre of his world—even for the briefest moment—and he cared for her and only her, it was unsettling.

Well, here's another news flash then. She'd be cold. Yes! She'd make him know that he couldn't boss her around—even though he was the boss and she respected him for that because he did earn it in the eyes of his brethren—but she really would not permit him to toy with her emotions any longer. Already so much has taken place in these past few weeks, she would not let another alter her life again. She'd _just_ gotten used to her routine, having it distorted would throw her off balance, and she'd have no anchor to grip onto in the thunderous waves crashing her down. It was her decision or no decision at all.

"Yes, show them," she encouraged herself. "I should stop thinking aloud. Oh, doing it again." Shaking her head, she continued her way down.

When she reached the kitchen, when she opened the door, a smile broadened her lips as she spotted the familiar people filling the space. Love instantly filled her chest. Ah, did she love them. "My lovely, lovely greetings to everyone," she offered, strolling inside. Dania, from hearing her voice, came rushing in from the garden, almost instantly rubbing her body against her ankles. Still smiling, she bent over and gave her head a scratch.

"Our lovely, lovely greetings to you, too," Zainab said, walking over to give her a hug. She embraced her right back. "Someone's in a good mood."

She shrugged. "I seem to make myself happy."

Zainab laughed, withdrawing and going back to peeling potatoes.

Farah neared them, wedging her body between Zainab's and Haroon's. "Ooh, what are we cooking?"

"Yakhanit Batata," Zainab answered. "A potato stew. The Cadets have been working and training in the cold, we thought we'd cook something warm for them."

"Mmm." Her mouth watered and she licked her lips. "I can't wait." Kissing Zainab on the cheek and bumping Haroon on the shoulder with her fist, she went away to empty her bucket of filthy water and cleanse the mop under the water coming from the kitchen's water pump.

Once done, she excused herself. "Let me bathe and I will come and help you around."

"Okay!" Zainab tossed over her shoulder.

Exiting the kitchen, she came face-to-face with Maryam. She let out a quick scream, and then palmed her chest. "God, woman, you scared me."

Maryam chuckled from the depth of her chest, the vibrations even making Farah's chest tingle.

"Just the person I've been wanting to see," she said.

Farah frowned. Then instant realization dawned, and she raised her eyebrows in advance. "Oh, no. He actually talked to you."

Maryam didn't feign ignorance. She knew what Farah meant. She sighed, shrugging. "I'm sorry, honey. But he's my leader. His word is not to be taken lightly. He wishes you come down to the kitchen."

If Farah was a cat, her claws would've come out. "Well, I like my place up there. I already told him that."

"Girl," Maryam huskily said, tilting her head to the side. "Do not make this hard on me. He didn't enjoy seeing your mars, and I, too."

Didn't enjoy seeing her mars? The ones in her soul or her fingers? Who cares, her fingers weren't there for him to enjoy! Nevertheless, she knew where Maryam was coming from and adamantly shook her head. "I will manage. I'm not exchanging my spot up there to down here. I can do another duty after it but I cannot handle another alteration. Please, understand."

Maryam sighed, the sound let out roughly. "Alright," she at last gave in. "After your duty with the floors, you will help around the kitchen—like you already do."

Farah suddenly brightened. "Yes!" She fist-pumped the air. "I really appreciate you, Maryam. You know that, right? Your existence is a blessing to mankind." She embraced the older woman, kissing her cheek three times.

"Alright, alright." Maryam hoarsely chuckled. "But do not think I'm okay with your decision. Remember, girl, if ever you find yourself desiring change, come to me."

Withdrawing, Farah said, "I will. You don't worry about that." With that, she went away to her chamber. Once all clean and washed up, she loosened her hair, wore a black tunic and slacks, her boots and cloak, and went out to the kitchen.

There, she helped with the meal, helped Haroon with his reading—yes, they moved to reading since he already learned the alphabet—and was now walking alone outside. The air was fresh, filling her lungs with minty-like oxygen, and a strong breeze once in a while blew across the land. The sun hid behind grey clouds, casting a shadow below.

As Farah walked about, ignoring the glances shot her way, she realized how... beautiful, ethereal, almost, this place was. From the entrance she'd emerged, the ground to her left forming into steps that lead down to the main gateway and the training grounds, she found herself gaping at the structure of the fortress.

Stationed right before the main gateway, where outside it was a small market place, she craned her neck back and took in the entire monstrous size of it.

She knew it was stationed at the top of the mountain, some corners of it hidden with the help of the rocks itself, and noticed many turrets in the foundation. Massively constructed palisade walls protected it from each side, with the aid of the sheer towering heights of the mountain, and guards patrolled above them, watching out for any danger.

As she travelled about the fortress, further examining it, she spotted a low river of pure, cold water gushing forth from the left-hand side of the fortress. She suspected even the village below had a perfect view at it. But another second mountainous valley and a wider and bigger river could be spotted from the other side of the fortress, and yet its currents did not flow towards the village nesting below. On the same right-hand side of it, she spotted a high tower completely separate from the other foundations with a series of ropes and wooden beams hanging before it that were connecting their way to the rising valley.

She turned about yet again. Watchtowers completely surrounded the fortress' walls, and she spotted expert archers perched above them, watching the valleys and the village below for any suspicious act.

On the Southern part of the fortress, there could be seen a wide stone platform that jutted out from the mountain, and high at its peak, there were wooden beams shooting out. Below each anchored beam, there were, as odd as it may seem, several rows of resting haystacks. Move a little from the hays, and one would see another row of wooden beams and ropes criss-crossing over the river below and to the other mountainous side.

Last but not least, after one reached over to the other side of the river, there was a lofty tower rising towards the sky, and at its top were... well—logs? What were they?—being restrained by a wooden barrier.

Gazing about and soon finding herself in the middle of the training grounds and amidst both men and younger boys, she spotted a few shirtless ones in the training ground and accidently gave them a thumbs-up. When they clocked her and chuckled, some even whistling, she cleared her throat and awkwardly turned and walked toward the main gateway. Stationed close to it was a barn, and she entered it without a second's thought.

It was warm inside, and she heard the huffs and rough snorts of the horses. Facing her were aligned stables crowded with them. Her shoulders easing, she approached one stall and smiled at a brown horse. Its dark eyes watched her, and it deeply exhaled on her hand when she tried to gently brush its nose.

"Hey there little guy," she murmured, still smiling. At her fourth caress, it stomped its legs on the ground and released another rough snort. She laughed. "My name is Farah, what's yours?"

"Naima," came the answer from behind her.

Startled, she screamed, instantly twirling around. An aged man with a bald head with a few grey strands still hanging on at his sides, kindly smiled at her through dark brown eyes. "I'm Hashem," he introduced himself. "The groom."

Farah licked her lips, and scratched her temple nervously. "I'm, uh, not supposed to be here. I guess. And I think I guessed correctly. I should go." She was making for the door but he softly laughed, clasping his wrist behind his back.

"You are allowed here, child," he said. "Do not fret. Come back."

She stopped, turned around. "Oh," she murmured. "Well, I don't feel silly at all. I'm Farah."

He smiled without revealing his teeth. "Beautiful name. Where are you from, Farah?"

How did he already know she was a foreigner? She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened, closed. "Would you believe me if I said I'm from here?"

He chuckled, briefly glancing down before looking up at her once more. "Your accent is not like ours. It's different when you speak English words. Our tone is heavy, yours is light. That is how I depicted you to be from elsewhere."

Farah tugged her lips down in a 'Wow, impressive' manner. "You're right. I'm Bulgarian. Well, half Bulgarian. The other half is Syrian."

"Father? Mother?"

"Father," she answered with a purse of her lips.

He nodded. "What brought you here, to our home?"

"Well," she drawled, slowly making her way to the horses. She approached a shining black stallion, marvelling at its beauty, and caressed its wide forehead. "Life did." Its fur was smooth and silky under her touch, meaning it was well cared for.

"Be careful, this one bites," he warned. And just in time. The rascal was about to snap its teeth down on her hand. "Oh!" She immediately snatched her hand away, and then abruptly laughed out loud. The old man Hashem laughed with her.

"Thanks," she offered, wiping her hands on her thighs. "Nearly got me there."

"You see, this one," he said, walking over to the horse and gently rubbing its neck up and down, "is one of our greatest stallions. She's got strong legs, strong muscles. She races like no other, leaps like no other, and holds herself like no other. She's feisty like that. Her name is Zahra. And she's pregnant, hence the biting."

"Oh," she instantly echoed. "Really?"

"Yes." He nodded. "Now, come here. I will show you where to touch so she doesn't feel the need to attack you."

"Okay." She inched up to him, half nervous half afraid.

He demonstrated. "Run your palm slowly, smoothly over her neck. Don't roam it too down or up, just the middle."

She nodded in understanding. "I can do that." Licking her lips, she outstretched her hand. "Don't bite me, Zahra. I'm a good human being." At her words, the groom chuckled and Zahra released a huff of air.

Biting her lower lip, she rested her hand on the powerful muscles of her neck and gently rubbed up and down. The locked muscles began to ease under her touch and she relaxed at last. Craning her raven face away, she snorted.

"That's it," Hashem praised.

"When is she due?" Farah asked, looking at him from over her shoulder.

"She mated late in the season. Eleven full moon's have since passed; her foal's due this month."

"Wow," she said in a murmur, focusing on Zahra again. "You're such a big girl," she praised. "Oh, yes you are. Who's the father?"

Hashem pointed at a very big and healthy-looking chestnut stallion at the end of the stables. "That one. He's met his match when he met Zahra, I tell you."

She chuckled. "So whose horse is she?"

Hashem shook his head. "Nobody except two people were able to tame her. Our late mentor and the new one, Altair ibn La-Ahad. The rest were thrown right off. She has no owner."

At the mention of his name, Farah's insides instantly reacted, and she _Oh_'d, ignoring the slight leap of her heart. "That seems about right." Then, when curiosity bugged at her, she, finally mustering an easy tone but really somewhat anxious on the inside, asked, "So... which one's the mentor's horse? I mean the new one's, not the deceased." And, goodness, could she get more blunt in her speech? Much less obvious? "Not that I care or anything," she hastily added. _Shut up_, she thought to herself. _Just stop talking._

Hashem didn't seem bothered by her choice of words, and shrugged, pointing once more to the end of the stables. "The chestnut is the father to this mare's foal. He's the mentor's stallion."

_You have got to be kidding me_. Of course the father was Altair's horse. Why ever would she think otherwise? "I'm not even surprised," she let out with slight chuckle, giving Zahra another gentle rub.

"And you shouldn't be. She allowed no other horse to approach her except the horse of the man who'd managed to tame her. This one's going to be one healthy foal, let me tell you."

"I'm so proud of you," she said to Zahra, looking into her big coal-like eyes. "Keep that posture, and don't let no males get the best of you." Turning to him, she asked, "Would you mind if I take her out for a walk? I won't ride her due to her pregnancy but a little walk and exercise helps the mare. Or that's what I've been taught."

Hashem craned his neck to the side, his lips forming into a small, kind smile. "No, you've been educated well. By all means, do so. I was just about to take them out for a run."

Her eyebrows immediately shot up in surprise. "Really? You wouldn't mind if I joined you? I don't mean to pressure anybody here so if you wish to do it alone, I totally—"

"—No, by all means, child. Come." He waved his hand before his body in welcome.

She agreed almost instantly. "Okay!"

"Just help me get them out of their stalls. You start from the chestnut and work your way to the middle while I start from the opposite end."

She nodded. "Sure; I can do that." The chestnut. Okay. There was no problem facing Altair's horse. None at all. So the chestnut, huh?

She made her way to the end and stopped before his stall. With a wide forehead, big nostrils, and beautiful melted honey eyes with spiky, dark lashes protecting them, he was the epitome of loveliness. A true breed of the Arabian horses.

At her face, he craned his neck to the side, then the other, and huffed with a quick shake of his head. She outstretched her hand, making sure to ease her shoulders in the process, and placed it on his face. His fur, too, was soft and silky underneath her touch, but his chiselled muscles and strong bone structure shifted underneath all that softness, and she knew him to be an instant dominator.

From his body language, he was readying himself. For something. To plough her to the very ground? Most likely. But she tried to relax her body as well as she was able, trying to assure the horse that she meant no harm.

Unhooking the wood that shut the door and placing it aside, she slowly opened the door. And, okay, wow, he was huge. An average horse towered up to fifteen to sixteen hands high. This one was most probably eighteen.

Farah, facing off a very proud stallion, walked backwards and, with her hands, beckoned him to come out. One step, two, he leisurely clacked his way out, following her. She quickly turned, left him there, and went on to open other doors.

One by one, horses of every colour—white, black, chestnut, grey—strode out, and all were glorious with their shining skin tight around their body, revealing the structure of their bones and well-defined muscles. Their legs were thin but strong, and the hairs on their nape and tail were long and brushed, falling faultlessly on their sides.

The last but not least was Zahra's stable. She whined the barrier open, releasing her in all her glory. Now this one was a major deal-breaker.

"Magnificent," Farah said in sheer wonderment. Adorned with jet black fur from head to toe, towering up to almost seventeen hands high, she was the goddess amongst these pile of horses. Or the horess. Yes, inane, but oh, my. The inky hair behind her nape was so many and so thick, as though purposely brushed to the side to make her appear more majestic, that Farah actually envied a horse's hair. At the tip of her heels, she had feathers, and that added more ethereality to her appearance.

Yeah, she kind of got where Zahra's haughtiness came from.

With her hands, she beckoned her to step out. Only problem—she didn't. She lingered in her spot, eyeing Farah straight in the face. Attitude, much?

"Oh, I see," she said, puckering her lips. "You want to show who's the boss, huh? Come on." She beckoned her out. Or tried to; Zahra stayed glued to her place. "We're going to take a walk outside."

She loudly snorted, flared her nostrils, flattened her ears, and gave her big, gorgeous head a shake. Farah narrowed her eyes and, anchoring her hands on her hips, intently gazed at her. Was she really having a stare down with a horse?

Zahra suddenly leapt forth and, with a push from her forehead, thrust Farah aside. She gasped, slamming against the door, causing it to rattle. She swept her hair away from her face. "Oh, no you didn't!"

"Zahra!" Hashem's voice boomed across the barn, and whatever Farah was about to do she stopped mid-process. The horse was bowing her head down in a hostile manner, ready to attack her again. Hashem approached the stable, raising his hands high in reassurance. "Calm, girl," he softly let out. "Easy, Zahra. Easy." When he gently placed his hand on her forehead, then her neck, and brushed it, she leisurely calmed under his caring touch. When done, Hashem looked back at her.

"I apologize. She was learning who the dominant was. Horses tend to do that when they're looking for a rider; it's quite natural."

She swallowed, shaking her head. "It's okay. I should've been ready myself."

Giving her a warm smile, he ushered Zahra out of her stable. When all the horses were outside the barn, Hashem brought out two saddles. "Here." He handed her one. "Ride the chestnut."

Her head instantly snapped up. "What? Oh, you mean Naima. Okay."

"No, no." He shook his head, and began putting the saddle atop a grey horse. "Naima is picky. She'll provoke you when you begin riding her, redirecting your courses."

"Seriously, what is up with these horses?"

He chuckled. "I meant Vaclav—the mentor's horse. He's the dominating type, alright, but every horse's basic instinct demands it. What's good about him is his discipline. Once you prove to him you are the rider, he'll follow. And he knows the roads down to the meadows better than most. I need to make sure your safety is of the highest priority."

Her heart softened a little at the last sentence. "You are kind. Well, then, I guess I shall prove myself." Walking over to the said chestnut, she put the saddle on the ground and straightened to ascertain her leadership. She puffed out her chest a little. _Good, let him know you've got yourself some lady balls. _He gazed at her with his beautiful caramel eyes, and flared his nostrils. His ears flattened a little. By these acts, he was clearly spelling out "Get the hell out of my space". With a step forward, he attempted to enter her personal space.

She was awaiting exactly that.

Living with Ahmad and helping him around the barn, she learned couple of new tricks. When Vaclav inched her way, Farah raised her arms and took a step forth, too. She clacked her tongue at him, meaning he move backwards. He roughly exhaled. She continued in her act. One step, two, she approached him in a manner that was not hostile but definitely demanding. And soon, he, with one step, two, retraced back his steps. Yes! Success. Holla! When he attempted to step forth again, she clacked her tongue, slowly waving her hand to keep him away. Only when he stopped and she stood in his personal space did she rest her hand on his head and rubbed. "There, you stubborn big guy, you. Stay here." She pointed sternly.

Lifting the saddle from the ground and placing it atop him, she noticed him try to brush his body against hers. A sign of disrespect. She clacked her tongue again, much louder this time. At the warning, he inched away from her. She had his respect. For now.

"Impressive," Hashem said as she saddled Vaclav.

She smiled, looking over her shoulder. "Thanks. A great man from my past taught me the essentials. He was very good with horses." Remembering Ahmad and his great acts, her heart ached and she felt weighed down. _Missing you._

"He taught well. Let us leave, then?"

"Yes." Securing the belts and the ropes, Farah, with a powerful push, mounted the towering horse, and comfortably nestled on top of him. The chiselled muscles below shifted, and he turned. She grabbed the reigns and redirected his motions. And, oh, wow, the view from up here was definitely enthralling. Being this high, she felt the blow of the wind more powerfully. And loved it. Exhaling deeply, she urged Vaclav to move when Hashem began guiding the horses out from the main gateway. People and the guards stepped out of their way, and some tossed her surprised expressions. Perhaps it had something to do with her riding their mentor's stallion. She cleared her already clear throat and shifted her gaze away.

When all stomped out, increasing their pace in the face of a grand opening, Vaclav also began to feel excited. He trudged forth with vigour but Farah made sure not to lean forward. She did not wish to excite him further when they were about to go downhill towards the village.

Dust rose from the ground, small rocks rattled and jumped up and down, and a vibration resounded in the air as more than fifty horses trampled down the mountainous hill. Loud neighs and snorts boomed across the space, further thrilling her horse, pumping his body with adrenaline. Vaclav bolted into action, speeding into the midst of the bodies of horses, trying to get to the front. Only then Farah realized he was aiming to lead the herd of horses as their dominant leader. This time, she leaned a little forward, and her act communicated itself to Vaclav and he sped onwards. She bypassed Hashem and even Zahra.

When she reached the clearing, earning the first place and having horses follow Vaclav, a bright smile parted her lips.

It had been so long since she left the grounds of the castle, and doing so now blessed her with the feeling of freedom. Excitement. She thought walking Zahra around a bit would ease her and usher comfort into her day, but this was so much better. So much better than her expectations. She recalled Ahmad, his horses; she recalled Khadijah, her delicious meals she prepared after she'd finished cleaning the barn. She recalled Sarah and their days filled with chaos and sisterly love. She recalled all the precious memories with them, the freedom with them, and now felt something akin to it flow through her veins, delighting her.

They descended on the village grounds, bypassed around it and the homes residing in the area, and made their way straight to the flat valleys resting far beyond. She allowed Vaclav to bolt forth to the lands he knew of, and witnessed the muscles below jolt and shift mightily. He was strong. Fast. Flexible.

The cold air not only nipped at her but blew harshly against her form, causing the ends of her cloak to flutter and her long black strands to whip backwards and dance with the wind. And yet it did nothing to calm the adrenaline pumping through her system.

The horses caught up and soon she found them at her sides, their strong legs leaping forth, merriment in their eyes, and watched liberty become them. Heads rose and fell, their paces decreasing and increasing, and up in the skies, in the vast greyness of the atmosphere, the shriek of an eagle erupted.

-x-

Hours later, after taking the horses to the flat valleys and letting them run free by the stream of water, they returned to the castle. The sun was setting, the golden sphere shooting rays of light pink, blue and purple shades across the sky and illuminating the clouds. Striding side-by-side on their horses, Farah and Hashem entered through the main gateway.

He was also sharing with her his life. Hashem was a retired assassin; he had no wife nor kids. He was the only child in his family, and now lead a peaceful life as the groom. His brethren respected him immensely, loved him dearly, and that was all that mattered, was what he said.

"Was there no one you loved in your life?" Farah asked, facing him sideways.

He laughed softly, but then a sad, almost pitying expression fell upon his features, and he looked solemn. "I loved, my dear child. Oh, how I loved. She loved, too. But her parents could not give away their sweet daughter to a killer. I understood their decision. I had to. And she was given to another man." He nodded then, gaze towards the ground. As though accepting, as painful as it was, the choices that were made.

Farah's chest ached, and she suddenly wanted to hug the old man. "I'm so sorry. But they made a huge mistake, that I can tell."

He chuckled, lifting his face and beaming at her. "Do you wish to know about her?" he asked.

"Yes," she immediately responded. "Do tell."

"Her name was Hawa. We were very young when we met. Twenty-one, I remember. She was from Acre, that beautiful lady, and I from here. I was on a mission, ready to strike down my enemy. And I did. But I was spotted just as quickly, hence I ran but not fast enough. The guards were going to reach me, capture me, but a lady from a shop suddenly pulled me inside and hid me." He chuckled, shaking his head as though still in disbelief.

"When I gazed down, I was greeted by the most beautiful creation my eyes had ever seen. Surely God took His time with her. With black eyes, midnight curly hair, oiled and brushed so gracefully, and skin sun-kissed and decorated by small moles, she was the epitome of Heaven. She was the woman the poets poured out their hearts to on paper, and she was wind itself, carrying everyone with calm attitude at days, then stormy at others. We fell in love so quickly, so passionately, it was as though she swept me away in her tornado, and I truly never wished to be found. She was kind, especially to animals, and she was generous, especially to the poor. But I knew in my stained soul that I could never attain a purity such as she. And I didn't. We fell apart right after the declination of my proposal, and I stopped visiting Acre. When I did, I did my best to avoid her. By God, I have not seen her since."

Farah listened intently. Then, "Would you like to see her now?" she asked softly.

"More the one who lost a possession so dear and valuable in the vastness of the desert, and hopelessly wished and prayed for its return and was at last able to find it."

"Then why don't you?"

He faced her, brows slightly furrowing. "I... Well, she is married to another man. Her parents told me so. I cannot go back in her life; I'm not welcome there."

Farah sighed, frowning a little herself. "I see."

"Forgive me, I get quite taken away when speaking of her," he apologized.

"Oh, no," she reassured. "I rather enjoy such stories. It's been an honour being acquainted with you, Hashem. You are admirable." When their horses rounded the barn, she, before descending down Vaclav, asked, "I might be crossing a few lines here, but I would really love to help you out more around the barn. I'm well educated when it comes to horses. Or at least cleaning after them and making sure they've food in their stomachs. I won't get in your way, promise. And let me tell you, I'm _prettay_ good when it comes to keeping promises. I'm babbling, sorry. I just enjoyed what we did today."

Hashem laughed, shaking his greying head. "Of course, child! You won't be getting in anyone's way. I'm the only man who cares for the horses, and a little hand would do me no harm. You are welcome. Come any time you wish."

Farah threw her arms in the air, letting out a, "Yes!" Then, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she said to Hashem, coming down her horse and shaking his hand even before he descended his.

Joy filled her, thrilling her. She felt light and buoyant. The simple thought of doing what she once used to do for Ahmad made her feel like she was home again. She wanted to be stable, she wanted an anchor, and here it was. Something she could relate to her past.

"I will come tomorrow the same time, you can expect me. I will be of great aid to you."

Hashem nodded, squeezing her hand warmly. "I will expect you, dear child."

"Okay," she said, smiling.

When every horse was in his stable again, she waved goodbye to him and walked back inside the castle and to her chamber.

At night, she turned to her side, clutching the blanket to her chest and facing Altair's side of the bed. She inhaled deeply, and then exhaled. She thought of Hashem's words.

"More than someone who lost a valuable possession in the vastness of the desert and was at last able to find it, huh?" she murmured to herself, her voice hushed and low in the darkness of her chamber. Such an odd and unpalatable description, to be quite honest. If it was lost in the desert, it was as good as gone. And yet, why did his words describe so well what she felt whenever she chanced a glance at Altair?

It was as though she'd been denied water for so many years and was at last given a sip of it.

She shook her head, her hair rustling against her pillow. _Can't think like that._ She closed her eyes, trying her hardest to sustain the emotions building up inside her. _Can't ever think like that_.

-x-

In the following days, word had reached Maryam about the Prison Girl helping Hashem around the barn. She'd tracked Farah down and questioned her. Farah had simply replied, "I just wanted to help him, that is all."

Maryam had sighed, the sound coming out hoarse and almost smoky. "Alright," she'd said. "You can work there, but on one condition."

She'd frowned. "What is it?"

"You cannot continue with three jobs, it'll be the end of you. Drop the cleaning on the three floors and take up the duty with the horses."

"Ha!" Farah had retorted. "Nice try. I'd rather drop the kitchen work instead."

"Girl," Maryam had sternly said, as though in warning.

"Is that a 'yes, of course' I hear? Sweet!"

She'd kissed Maryam on the cheek and had rushed away, hearing the main housekeeper let out, "Whatever am I going to do with you."

Now she was in the barn, cocooned in the heat and warmth of it, gently brushing one of the horses. She slid the brush across his side, leaving smooth lines in its wake. She hummed to herself as she brushed and brushed and brushed. After finishing combing his hair, she lead him back to his stall and closed the door. They've been fed, their stalls cleaned, and themselves brushed to the point they shined.

"Now that you all look more presentable than me, I'll take it as my cue to finish up here and go wash up." As she turned to go, she gave Zahra's head a rub and snatched her hand away before she could bite it. Smiling, she walked to the exit, in the process of opening the door.

Just as she reached out, it unlocked from the outside, and in stepped a man draped all in black.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the smile on her lips broadened. "Malik!"

His head rose, and his dark eyes collided with hers. He grinned. "If it isn't our one and only Farah." He ran his gaze over her form. "You look good."

She snorted. "And you are a big, fat liar."

He touched where his heart beat. "Ah, you mar me."

"Good. Now, what are you here for? We have grey horses, black horses, white horses."

He tapped his chin in fake contemplation. "Any pink ones? My favourite colour."

She laughed. "No, but we do have a colour close to it. Say, the black one. Preferably Zahra. Oh, she's a darling."

This time he laughed, the sound husky. "Had your share with her, did you?"

"Nearly bit my fingers off."

"You came off easy. Me, well," he winced, "Nearly lost my two best friends."

She frowned. "Your two best friends— Oh!" Realization struck, and she laughed out louder even when a blush spilled over her cheeks. "Your two best friends," she said between chuckles. "They didn't dare part, did they?"

He arched a brow, a grin lifting the edges of his lips. His dark eyes shone with humour. "No. As they call it, they're still as close as two beings can be."

She couldn't believe they were having a conversation about his... yeah. If they continued, she would find herself on the floor, clutching her stomach.

She wiped the tears away from the corners of her eyes, and straightened, exhaling the strain that was building up in her belly. "Well, can I be of any help?"

"To them? Do not worry, I sought help for them a long time ago."

She punched his shoulder, chuckling as she did so. "I don't mean your best buddies, Malik."

He tsk-tsked. "And here I thought we were getting quite along."

"Oh, we were. Do you want to meet _my_ two best friends?" She arched a brow, teasing him.

He lifted one brow and appeared taken-aback. She nearly rolled her eyes. She knew what he was thinking about. Her breasts. _Men_, she thought.

She raised her fists instead. "This is," she indicated at her right hand, "is Kiss Me. This," she indicated at her left hand, "is With a Punch."

Malik, who was about to assume something else, suddenly barked out a laugh. Shaking his head, he quieted and faced her. "Amusing as always. Now I see why Altair kept you around."

Her amusement immediately fell, and she slowly lowered her fists. She hastily looked away. "So the horses. You wanted a grey one, you said? Oh, you didn't even say anything! Silly me. How about the chestnut? I hear she's very manipulative, but I'm guessing you can handle her. It reminds me, do you have a horse? Who am I kidding, I'm sure you do."

"Farah?" Malik unsurely called.

She faced him. "Hmmm?"

"Are you okay?"

She tossed him the fakest smile ever. "I'm perfect."

"Ha," he muttered, tilting his chin up a notch as he watched her. "So your sudden uneasiness has nothing to do with the fact that I mentioned Altair's name?"

She swallowed hard, then forced herself to shake her head. "No," she croaked out. "Not at all. Why would you... think that? And me, nervous? Never."

He took a step towards her, and she took one back. Then, straightening, she faced him with slightly questioning eyes. He inched towards her.

"Are you sure?" he lowly asked when he was a foot shy away from her.

She forced another smile. "Yes."

"Alright," he then said. Before she could open her mouth to respond, he abruptly chanted out, "Altair, Altair, Altair."

At the mention of his name, her heart leapt and picked up speed. She actually flinched at the sensations brewing within her, because they were that heavy. She clutched her belly, where the butterflies fluttered almost painfully.

She tried to brave it, really she did, but he kept on repeating his name. "Altair, Altair, Altair."

"Okay!" she shot out, no longer able to withstand it. "Okay, you win! God!"

He stopped, then watched her in silence. She watched him back. More silence. Then, "Altair," he let out for the last time. Another flinch, another round of butterflies.

"Malik!" she shouted, pushing at his shoulder. He took a few steps back, chuckling.

"There, there." He lifted his palms in surrender. "That was the final one."

She narrowed her eyes. "It better be, or else I'll introduce my Kiss Me With a Punch fists to your face."

"And ruin all this beauty? You wouldn't dare."

She snorted. "Please."

"I'll ignore that tone of yours and get straight to the matter at hand. What is it with you and his name?"

She shrugged. "Nothing."

He tilted his head to the side. "Be honest."

Another shrug. "I am."

"Farah Dovaros, was it?" he suddenly questioned, making her straighten her spine a little more.

Her lips parted, but she quickly closed them. "You know my full name, big deal."

"I also know your mother's. Dominica Dovaros."

She opened her mouth, ready to start an argument. "How do you—"

"That doesn't matter because I also know that you're not a Templar, that you lost your family a year ago, that you betrayed my friend and nearly robbed him of his life. See, I know a lot of things."

She faced him silently. Then, "He told you," she stated plainly. Something broke inside her, but she ignored it. She had no right to judge him for his actions when she'd caused what she did. He obviously needed an outlet, but why did it still hurt that he'd shared their past memories with someone else? Something that was so intimate and could only be spoken between them?

Malik, seeing the hurt written all over her face, sighed. "He needed the burden lifted from him. A burden that should not have been there in the first place."

She nodded, looking away. "And now you think I owe you some kind of explanation, is that it?"

He frowned, slightly leaning back from shock. "What? No. I would never use your weaknesses against you. I have got my pretty face for that. The reason I'm telling you all these things is that I _know._"

She licked her lips, meeting his eyes again. "And what did you conclude?"

He shrugged. "I concluded that I liked you."

"Oh," she muttered. "Really?"

He nodded. "You are braver than most of the men I know. Hence, Farah, you can share with me anything. I'm not here to judge or point fingers."

She liked those words. A lot. She had a friend, a true, genuine friend. "Well," she began, and cleared her throat. "He... uh, well, I don't know. He just... makes me feel... things. Odd things. It doesn't matter." She waved her words away.

He frowned. "Good things? Bad things?"

She blushed. Her belly still had the faint lingers of the butterflies, so... good? No. No, no, no. Not good. She would not harbour warm feelings for someone who was cold towards her. This whole thing was not to be spoken of at all. What was she doing, spilling all her innermost thoughts to the second-in-command? What if Altair learned of them? She'd be humiliated. That couldn't happen.

"Nothing," she replied with a sigh. "Let's just drop it. Please. And don't say anything about this to anyone."

"You've admitted nothing in particular for me to tell anybody of anything. But fret not, I will not press further. This will stay between us. Whatever it was."

"Thank you," she breathed out in relief. "And thank you for your friendship. You might not know it, but it means a lot to me."

He grinned at her. "Now," he said, changing the topic. "Where is my Naima?"

"Naima?" she echoed in surprise. "She's your horse?"

"My one and only."

Lips twitching at the corners, she guided him to her stall. "There is your one and only, looking prettier than you."

He approached the stall, opened the door and guided her out. "You look stunning," he praised, rubbing her neck up and down, to which she responded with a rough huff. "You've done a great job with her fur."

"Thaaank you."

He tossed her a smile over his shoulder.

As he was guiding her out of the barn, Farah asked, "If it isn't too personal, may I ask you a question?"

He faced her. "Ask."

"Your arm." She pointed, then, thinking it rude, lowered her finger. "How did you lose it? Or were you born this way?"

He was indifferent with her act, and shrugged. "I lost it on a mission."

"Really? What happened?"

Malik's expression altered, and he gazed at her with utter humbleness and solemnity. "It was recently, actually. A year ago. My brother Kadar and I were being somewhat mentored by Altair."

His name grabbed her attention almost instantly. "Wait, so Altair was involved?"

"If Fate had another name, it'd be Cruelty. He was. In fact, he played a major role in it."

"Of you losing your arm?"

"We were to go to Solomon's Temple to retrieve what you actually witnessed—the golden sphere. We did, but it came with casualties. Altair had acted abruptly, ignoring the three tenets of our Creed, and ambushed our enemies. That day I lost my arm and a brother."

She gasped. "Oh, no. No, please. For real?"

He nodded.

"I'm so sorry."

He gave her a sad smile. "Do not be. It's all over and buried in the past."

"But _how_?" she questioned, bewildered and in absolute shock. "How are you—"

"In good terms with him?" he finished for her. "Well, Farah Dovaros. You cannot hold responsible someone for who they were in the past when they're completely different in the present. Altair, given, was a proud man. And stubborn to his very core. The latter has not changed, nor the former, but only into positivity. He'd gone out on the road to redemption after his great fall from Master Assassin, and he'd gained it, alright. When he'd approached me for forgiveness, I knew and saw the change in him, a change that greatly matured him and grounded him more to the ground, and realized that I was facing a completely different man. I could not hold my grudge on him any longer, hence I forgave him. Yes, at times he might seem too proud, distant, or even cold, but that is just the manner he holds himself. He is messed up, we all are, but, even with the horrible things he'd endured in his childhood, he still seems to deal with it better than any of us. Altair may be a lot of things, but he isn't a coward, a betrayer, a thief or a liar. He's honest, brutally so, generous at times, but most of all, he's knowledgeable and full of truthfulness. To turn on him is to turn on goodness altogether. Even a fool should know better. I certainly did, hence why we are closer than ever."

Malik patted her on the shoulder and mounted his horse. Despite her urgency to question him of the horrible things Altair had experienced as a child, she realized it was not his place to tell so. And she wouldn't put him in a position like that.

"So you are friends now?" Farah asked instead, looking up at him.

"No," he plainly replied. Then smiled. It was an honest and warming one. "We are brothers."

With that, he rode off, leaving her alone to her thoughts.

"Brothers," she muttered to herself, bombarded. She slowly shook her head. How lucky of Altair to have a brother like Malik, and how lucky of Malik to have a brother like Altair. There was a bond, clearly. And even if she could not make sense out of it, she admitted it was filled with great respect, love, and sheer honesty. They looked ready to kill for each other. Stain their hands for each other. Give up for each other.

She was indeed at awe.

-x-

1191, Masyaf

The sun hid behind grey clouds, and the shadows still hovered above the land, giving the castle an eerie atmosphere, as though at last surging forth its real character. Despite the coldness of the days, the daily routine never faltered. People awoke as early as it was the break of dawn, opened up their shops, brought up their goods, and shuffled about the village nesting below. The training grounds were filled even before the sun rose, and soon it was overcome with loud chants and grunts of the Cadets in heavy exercise. Wooden swords clashed, some broke, arrows were shot at dummies rooted around the training grounds, the loud tap of the tips of numerous sharp arrows breaking past wood echoing around the space, and the stomps of horses being taught discipline joined the chorus reverberating in Masyaf's castle.

The cold season was only a month shy away from arriving, and already heavy rain poured down at nights and in dewy mornings. Grass wilted away, trees lost all their leaves, leaving them naked and vulnerable to the blowing of the gushing wind. The rivers were freezing-cold, and many filled barrels of them and kept them within the enclosure of four walls so as to make it warm for later use.

But today, after three days of continues rain, the sun was at last showing itself, gracing the land with enough warmth to only wear a tunic and black slacks.

Residing atop a stack of hay at the entrance to the barn, wearing only tight slacks and red tunic and black boots, was Farah. On her lap was a letter and a feather-pen with a small bottle of ink resting next to her thigh. She also had a book stolen from the library that was currently stationed under the letter, giving her a solid barrier to write upon. She lowly hummed and sang as her fingers scribbled on the yellow page, leaving wet, black letters in their wake.

Currently, she was pondering of ways to write to her family in Jerusalem. She wanted to let them know that she was safe and unharmed and that she was eating well. So far? She only drew a funny face of Altair. Googly eyes, huge nose, rabbit-like and crooked teeth with the lips of a hooker. She just couldn't stop herself.

One, she didn't know how to get him out of her mind, and, two, she didn't know how to write a proper letter to her family. After so many weeks of nothing, she'd just say "Well, hello. I'm good and you"? That was simply cold. And heartless. They'd wonder if she left them on purpose hence the reason why she wasn't returning to them. They'd be upset and heartbroken, and she would eat away her nails in worry. Nails that were now covered with bandages and ointment. But she also could not not write to them. They needed some kind of closure, something she wasn't capable of giving at the moment.

Perhaps she could pay them a visit? Just a simple visit to show them she was fine and take her depart without spilling anything? There was only one problem: she wasn't allowed to leave the grounds of Masyaf because Altair commanded so._ Altair_, she thought with narrowing eyes. Make that two problems.

She scratched the back of her head, her hair once again braided and pinned above in a bun, only leaving a few strands tumbling down her sides, and sighed out loud. She tapped the inky pen on her thigh and, accidently sending splatters of black ink on her tunic and paper, she cursed under her breath. She'd just bathed, finishing her daily jobs—the three floors and the barn. She wiped at the ink on the paper, causing it to smudge and worsen.

"Damnation," she muttered, putting away the pen and the paper away. _It's all your fault, Altair_, she blamed, glancing up and shifting her gaze towards the training grounds, in the process of watching the Cadets exercise.

Instead of a calm breath easing her chest, a sharp gasp got caught up in her throat.

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

Striding side-by-side next to Malik was none other than the mentor himself. While Malik wore all black, Altair wore his silvery outfit, his arched hood swung over his head. They had such vast contrast; like day and night. The sun and the moon.

Her first reaction was the thumping of her heart as it thrust against her rib-cage, desiring to break free. Her second was the urge to run up to him and embrace him. _She'd oddly missed him_. Her third was Hell no, and the thought to scatter and hide was too strong.

She did the third.

Cursing in a fierce whisper, she leapt to her feet and hastily glanced right and left, trying to find a hiding spot. At her abrupt jump, the book and the letter fell to the ground in a thud, and she, with haste, grabbed them and jumped behind the hay, attempting to escape notice but terribly failing—because they both turned their heads at the sudden sound.

She closed her eyes. Walk away, walk away, walk away, she internally prayed. Her heartbeat increased, and she pressed her lips together. She really did not have the courage to face him yet. She didn't lie when she told Malik that his friend made her feel odd things a few days prior.

Two shadows suddenly appeared above her, and even with her eyes closed, her body noticed it nevertheless.

"We can see you," came the deep and husky voice of Altair, and it sent a shiver running down her spine. _Act natural._

Cracking her eyes open, Farah straightened, then rose and turned to face them. She anchored her hand on her hip. "Oh, hey, Malik!" She waved.

By greeting him and not Altair—she didn't even look at him, really—she felt golden eyes slightly narrow at her, nearly making her squirm. _Ignore, ignore, ignore._

Malik grinned wickedly. "My greetings to you as well, Farah."

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Well, given the fact we live here, I'd say taking a leisure stroll with Altair."

_Don't react, don't you dare react_. She nodded. "I see." She _sooo_ didn't.

Malik blinked at her, then suddenly inhaled, attempting at a new pace. "Were you reading?"

Her eyes instantly widened. The book! From the library! Stolen! They couldn't see it. Hastily hiding it behind her back, she cleared her throat. So much for eluding notice. "Reading?" she asked innocently.

Beside him, Altair snorted, and she finally shifted her gaze to him. And, oh, goodness, there goes her heart again. With the shadows of his hood playing dark-and-light with his features, giving his golden eyes an extra gleam, and his luscious lips a dark allure, she was breathless all of a sudden.

His eyes met hers, and he stiffened in awareness. Of what, she hadn't the slightest clue.

She fused her lashes together, trying to hide the sparkle of appreciating in her eyes. "Okay, fine. You caught me. I was reading. Not only that, but it's from the library. I stole it, boohoo."

The corners of his lips twitched, and— Wait, was he fighting a smile? This was so not amusing!

"You stole it?" he echoed her words, arching a brow.

She formed a fake smile. "I'm not in the habit of repeating myself, so I won't. Besides, my dear mama warned me of talking to a stranger." _Take that!_

At her words, his eyes instantly narrowed to tiny slits, hiding the golden gleam. "Your mother was a wise woman," he lowly, darkly uttered.

"Wise she was."

Beside them, Malik shifted uneasily. Maybe it was due to the tension brewing between the two of them. It was electrical, even. Heating and pulsing with a soul of its own.

Altair turned his face away, his eyes abandoning hers and instead landing on the ground. He then frowned.

"What is this?" he asked, bending over to grab something from below.

Oblivious, she, too, gazed down—and gasped in utter horror.

"Nooo!" she shouted, reaching for the letter before him. It was too late. He took hold of it and easily pushed her hand out of the way. She must've dropped it in her haste! Oh, this is going to be humiliating!

Eyes on her, he then slowly dragged them to the paper—and stilled. Then, his dark lashes fused dangerously, and he examined the things she drew on the yellow page. Wordlessly, he faced her, grounding her with his intense glare, then the paper, and then her again.

Malik, curious, took a peek at the paper, and immediately barked out a laugh. "Oh, this is pure brilliance. You've got a good imagination, Farah."

"I was testing if I still had my talent. Good news, I apparently still do!" she provided, crossing her arms against her chest even when her cheeks burned with heat.

"On the contrary, my portrait would've come out well if you hadn't replaced my features with yours," Altair then offered drily.

Farah gasped in shock. He did not just—

Malik's gaze shifted from her to him, from him to her. "This is going to be fun."

She snatched the paper from his grip. "Just so you know, my features would even make a horse look good. In other words, I helped enhance your beauty and that was the result."

His lips twitched yet again. "In other words, your features are only good enough to make an animal appear presentable and not a human. Yet again you've failed."

Her jaw dropped open but before she could retort, his eyes landed on her hands, and the tease abruptly vanished. He was frowning. "I hear you've taken it upon yourself to help Hashem."

She tilted her chin up in determination. She wouldn't let him change it. "I did. I didn't wish to work in the kitchen."

"Fair enough," he offered, his reply totally not what she expected.

"Oh." She eased a little, her determined walls coming down. "Okay. That's good."

"Now who were you writing to?" he asked suddenly, taking her by surprise.

She stuttered. "W-What?"

"The letter." He pointed at it with a tilt of his chin. "You wrote Dear and put a comma. I assume it's a letter or I will take it you were indicating it to my drawing."

Her cheeks heated, turning tomato-red she was sure. She fumbled over her words yet again. "N-No, I definitely was not!"

He crossed his arms against his chest, making the material of his robe hug his figure tightly. She saw the outline of his brawn muscles, and noticed her mouth water. No! She drew her gaze away, shaking the affect off. Concentrate.

"Who were you writing to, female?" he ground out. Even Malik eyed her.

She, too, crossed her arms against her middle, hugging the book in the process, but remained silent.

"A husband, perhaps?" Altair pressed, and she thought she heard the words laced with spite. "Your child?"

She frowned, nearly even sputtered. _Child?_ "What? No," she answered, waving his words away. "Just some... people." _My family_.

She also thought she noticed his shoulders slightly ease down in... gladness? Her eyes were most probably fooling her.

"Look, I was attempting to write a letter but I didn't, okay? I know how you feel about all of this so you have my word that I won't send out anything." She spoke true; now that he knew of her letter mission, there was no way she'd betray him again.

"Are they close enough to worry about you?" His question surprised her.

She stared at him, then offered a soft nod. "Yes."

He nodded, as if all was settled. "Tomorrow morning, be at the office. I will advice you."

"What do you mean?"

"Tomorrow," he repeated, offering no more information. "And as for the book," he gestured, "return it when done."

"Wait, so you are not... mad?"

"Mad?" he echoed. "Over a book? Much less over the tales of_ Dadah Qorqud_?"

"Yes, that too. But what about the... letter? What if I sent it out, mentioning where, exactly, I was located?"

He straightened in a beat, his expression darkening. "Is that your way of cueing you already did what you just said? If so—"

"No!" She abruptly defended herself. "No, God. You know what? I'm all in. Tomorrow, right? Okay, tomorrow it is. Nice talking to you both. Now," she gave her book a pat, "I'm going to go read this somewhere I won't be bothered. Malik," she said, bidding her farewell.

He inclined his head down. "Farah."

She turned her attention to Altair. "Assassin," she said, making sure her voice didn't tremble.

A muscle below his eye ticked. "Female."

Right. She turned on her heels, heart in her throat, disappointment in her chest at parting from him so soon, and made her way towards the other way—straight at the tower holding the massive wooden planks at its peak.

Hugging the book to her chest to somewhat ease the sting surging from her middle, she walked away. The more she strode away, the more the sting transformed into a burning hole, and the wider the hole became, the stronger the urge to glance back gripped at her.

_You have to be cold, remember?_ Indifferent. Just leave. Keep the needed distance and do not turn around.

A sudden blast resounded in the area, for the briefest second ushering in silence and quietening everything and everyone, and then the thundering fall of—

Oblivious and in innocent naivety, Farah halted and gently lifted her head up.

From high above the tower rising before her, the humongous wooden planks came tumbling down, each ear-piercing thud reverberating her very body and shaking the ground she stood upon.

Sudden screams erupted around her, and then the shouts of both men and women. Running noises greeted her ears.

Farah stood frozen in place, unable to register the current situation in.

Her lips parted, her lashes lifted high and long, and her eyes gaped at the scenery unfolding before her.

Swiftly was the fall of the planks; they tumbled, tumbled, tumbled d_ooo_wn and rolling, rolling, rolling crashed directly onto the ground, shaking it. One after the other, they came, each new hit causing the one in the back to leap to the front. They rushed forth and across the land—rushed straight at her.

Gasping, only one thing registered in her mind. It was not to move, to run, or to even save herself, no.

It was the desire to see one being. One man—even if it was for the last time.

She swiftly turned in her place, screaming, "Altair!" when a plank was a foot away from squashing her little body.

Before her eyes could register anything in, any of the chaos, a body slammed against hers, sending them both crashing to the ground. Air whooshed out of her lungs, and in the moment of contact, her back harshly scratched against the rugged ground. She let out a loud yet broken cry.

The body abruptly embraced her, shielding her with its own. And the heavy plank that was just about to crush her, miraculously jumped over their forms, missing them by only an inch.

She witnessed everything through widened eyes, and yet could not digest anything at the moment. What she instead performed was, when thunderous echoes greeted her ears in a never ending cycle, when every fall told her she'd be breathing her last, tightly shut her eyes. Seconds, minutes—a whole eternity, perhaps—passed, and when everything was quiet, when every thud and clanking of the planks ceased and only silence saluted her senses, only then did she dare to crack her lids open.

Dust plumed the air, clouding her surroundings, and heaviness still weighed her down, protecting her. Slowly, gently, Farah craned her head to the side, trying to see past the sandy-dust and to the person above her.

She didn't have to do it alone.

_His_ head rose, and she was greeted by golden hawk eyes deeply gazing down at her.

A gasp clogged her throat, and sudden tears burned the back of her eyes as her jaw dropped and she, aghast, returned his stare.

Lines of tension abraded his forehead, his slashing brows meeting in the middle, and his lips formed into a scowl. She could not put a label on his expression. It was both pained and relieved. Angry but at the same time glad.

Her hands, tugging them out from below his body, went straight to his face. She grabbed his cheeks, and slightly lifted her head so their noses brushed against each other. She peered into his golden pools.

"Altair," she rasped out, breathless. Hot tears burned her eyes as sudden realization dawned on her. He protected her. Shielded her. _Risked_ his life for her. Then another realization saluted her, this one of utter horror and fear for the utmost worst.

"Are you hurt?" she rushed out, frantic. Her hands brushed at his face, his neck, his head. "Please, oh, God," she cried out softly. "Tell me you're unhurt. I beg you. P-Plea...se" her voice broke. If he wasn't, if h-he... was not, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. Her lower lip trembled. "Altair, I beg you..."

He gently palmed her hand, resting it below his chin and pressing his forehead against hers. The act comforted her. He deeply and thoroughly inhaled and exhaled. "I'm well," he reassured her. "Unharmed. I promise."

It felt as though someone had punched the remaining breath out of her lungs, because she exhaled in utter relief. "Oh, G-God!" she let out with sob and tightly embraced him. Right then the hot tears streamed down her cheeks, and she broke down in his arms. Her body shook with every sob.

The alleviation was too much, it even bombarded her. But she cared not. So was so scared, so scared for him. Just the thought of blood coating his unmoving body nearly threw her over the edge.

"I'm well," he said once more, and gently, smoothly, collected her body and began to rise.

Breath hitched in her throat. "What are y-you—"

"Hold on," he grunted out, pushing to his feet. "Don't let go."

Even if his weapons dug into her body, she further tightened her embrace around his neck. He lifted her, putting one arm around her back and one below her knees.

He stood, and his arms meshed her body to his, still shielding her. Still protecting.

Around them the dust leisurely settled, and soon the outlines of humans and shapes alike came into view. Altair turned in his spot, and the figures, those watching for any movement, might've noticed the sudden act because they leapt into action, rushing towards them.

"Altair! Farah!" Malik's voice broke the silence, and she saw his body running to them.

Then, following him, everybody ran, too. The planks, she now saw, were scattered around the land, but she saw no lifeless body lying under it or next to it.

"Are you well? Are you hurt?" Malik's voice resounded close to them. Altair shifted, looking at his second-in-command. Soon, everybody crowded them.

"We are both well," Altair informed. His tone was edgy, almost laced with fury, but not at Malik.

Malik exhaled in happiness, giving Altair's shoulder two rough pats. "Thank God."

Farah sniffed, wiping away her tears. She wiggled in his arms, telling him it was okay to let her down now. He didn't heed her body language. She did it again, he still ignored the hint. Then, "You can put me down now. I'm alright. I promise," she softly said, looking up at him.

"Stay," he firmly commanded, his arms further tightening around her. His words and acts both confused and gladdened her at the same time, leaving her speechless.

He then looked around, his eyes scanning the catastrophe. "Is everybody well?" he shouted. Chorus of "Yes's" filled the space. At the positive response, his shoulders eased down. _No one_ harmed? No injuries? It was a divine miracle.

"Very well," he said, looking at Malik. "Have the planks removed and learn the cause of all this. Inform me when you have answers."

His second-in-command curtly nodded. "Will do."

He then turned, lifting his head and gazing up at the tower. Farah, too, gazed up.

The space that'd contained the planks was now empty. There was nothing. There was no one.

Something dark and strange befell her, and she found herself cowering in fear. She knew Altair felt the same, but he did not cower. Instead, he turned on his heels and strode away with her still in his arms.

But Farah, deep inside, knew, just alike the times she did when she'd opened up to Altair about her father and it felt as though they'd broken one of Life's main rules, or just alike the time before her meeting with Edwardo and soon her mother's death, that black clouds hovered above her.

The leaking inky, black clouds of a certain approaching doom.

-x-


	26. Chapter 26

**AN:** _I didn't leave, I'm here! The comments you guys posted were really motivational, so here is another chapter!_

_**Before you go on**__, it is important that you understand that this story is rated M for a reason. There will be violence, dark scenes, blood, maybe even rape, and lemon. And apples. And strawberries. There will be fruits of all kinds, because I have a big appetite. The rape thing I'm not even sure about it but I'm putting it out there just in case I go dark. Let's hope I don't. Ok I won't. And no, Altair won't be raping anybody (if that's what you thought) and I should really close this topic before we get the wrong ideas. So if you wanted unicorns and rainbows, it's all in the T-Rated section. You've been warned, and I'm not going to warn you again._

_But enjoy!_

What We Can't Have

Chapter Twenty-Six

1191, Masyaf

Holding onto Farah with all his will, Altair strode inside the castle, bypassing the guards stationed next to it. They all opened their mouths to say something, but his expression shut them all down.

He was frowning deeply and scornfully. He was a sight to behold—none dared to approach.

Striding with determination, he made his way to the East wing. "You," he said to a Cadet roaming next to the library. At his voice, the young lad glanced up, and instantly straightened.

"Yes, mentor," he obediently responded.

"Follow me."

At his curtness, the lad almost immediately fell into pace beside Altair, his strides increasing and decreasing as he tried to keep up with his long steps. Only when he reached Farah's chamber did he slow down. He turned to the Cadet.

"Get a healer to this room. Warn those who try to enter it with the promise I give you now: they'll pay with their lives. When the second-in-command comes for me, only to him shall you permit entrance. Are my orders clear?"

He jerkily nodded even when a spark of fear danced in his eyes at his dark choice of words. "Will do, mentor."

Without another word, he entered the chamber, slammed the door shut, and walked over to the bed.

"You didn't have to be that cold to the kid," Farah lowly said from her place in his arms. "He is most probably crying at the moment."

"That is the least of my concerns. What is," he gently set her down on the bed, and crouched low beside her, putting them almost eye-to-eye as he tilted his face up at hers, "Is if you have sustained any injuries?"

Taking her chin in his fingers, he gently angled her head side-to-side, examining for any mars. He examined her neck, the back of her head—the act causing her nose to bury in his neck and her warm breath to fan his revealed skin—and, taking her cloak off, her arms. She possessed but a few bruises and that was the extent of it. There could be more under her clothes; he heard her scream when he took them both down on the ground.

Crouching low again, he looked at her, and studied her dishevelled appearance. She sat at the edge of the mattress, her knees brushing against his chest. Her clothes were covered in dirt, her hair a huge mess above her head, her eyes wild and her pink lips parted. She gazed down at him in silence, her shoulders gently rising up and down with each inhalation and exhalation, and her brows slightly formed into a frown as she thoughtfully mused. Of what? He did not know. She still hadn't answered his question.

"Female," his clipped tone resounded when he couldn't wait any longer.

She swallowed. Then, "Why would you do that?" she softly murmured.

He knew exactly what she referred to—his act of protecting her. Maybe even sacrificing his life for hers. The thing was, he didn't know what possessed him, only knew that, when he spotted her form walk away, the ache that bloomed in his chest at her hasty departure after such a long time of not speaking, and when the wooden planks suddenly burst into motion, tumbling down to almost crush her, he had to reach her—or die trying. His legs were already sprinting into action even before he realized what he was doing.

But did he regret it? No. Would he do it again? This particular revelation surprised him, but he'd do it a thousand times over.

"Why would I not?" he replied.

Struck by his choice of words, her lips closed. She blinked at him. Then shook her head. "No. Don't ever do that again. I don't want you to."

He arched a brow. With a voice so smooth, like a gentle caress, he said, "I don't think that part is yours to decide, Farah."

She gasped, then her lower jaw quivered, her expression softening. "You said my name."

At this point, he'd say it again, do anything if it meant abolishing the memory of the event that nearly took their lives. But instead, he lowered his head down an inch. A part of him screamed its denial, another part of him applauded him for keeping his much required indifference.

Soft hands came to rest on his cheeks, the thumbs caressing the bones. He glanced up, and spotted the female's eyes glassed over and threatening to spill hot tears.

"Altair," she whispered, voice low and hoarse. "Please, listen to me. You could have died."

Placing one knee against the floor, he straightened a little, his face nearing hers. "I did not."

"You were lucky," she said, licking her lips, briefly dragging his attention to that pink tongue. Something sizzled down the length of his spine. Her delicate hands caressed his cheeks yet again, and then brushed his hood down, the act chasing away the shadows veiling his features. "We were all lucky. And as to answer your earlier question, I am injured."

He stiffened at the admittance, and despite the absence of the shadows, his expression darkened. "Where?"

"My back. But it's only a scratch, nothing I can't handle. You, too, are well. Right?" her uneasy tone rang out, the hands briefly stalling their soft caresses. Will. Not. Be. Disappointed. He assured himself.

He inclined his head down in a noble nod. "I'm unharmed, as I had promised before. But you will have that scratch checked with the healer, understand? Or I will do so myself."

Swallowing, she offered a nod of her own, and, her eyes suddenly landing on her hands, as if now noticing their position, instantly retreated them. Her lips parted, her body inched back, putting distance between them, and his jaw muscle ticked at her retreatment.

"I..." she faltered. "I'm sorry. After what occurred, I guess my body still needed physical reassurance. Even now the fall of the planks echo in my ears. It is just— I— I wasn't ready—" Once more her eyes glassed over, becoming red. Her lips trembled. "I was _so_ terrified."

At her confession, Altair once again wore a scornful expression. Not because he was displeased with her, no. Never. He was furious that something like that _dared_ to occur. Even now, when he flashed back to the memory of the blast resounding around the space, he remembered seeing no one atop the tower. It was just the woods. He'd quickly scanned the area, as well, but had spotted no person. It just had happened, and to her, of all people—the sole reason why he now harboured a dark expression. But God have mercy, if a soul was responsible for this, he wouldn't be able to control his fists. He wouldn't even want to.

With his one hand, he gently palmed her cheek, surprising her—and himself. Emotions, he was not well with. But now, as her figure shook in upcoming panic, he thought he didn't care.

"Look at me," he said, directing her gaze to his face. "We will get to the end of this, understand? Whoever, whatever, responsible will be unveiled. You are well, as am I, fret no more. Yes?" he softly inquired.

Exhaling shakily, she silently nodded.

As his thumb grazed her cheek, she leaned into his comforting touch, gaining solace from it. She shut her eyes as Altair briefly blinked. He did not expect such a reaction, and felt his chest... tingle?

"Does this mean I owe you?" she whispered out.

At her question, he growled. "No."

Fluttering her lashes apart, she faced him with a slight frown. "You saved me by risking your own life. How can I make amends? Tell me, what can I do for you? I will do it, Altair."

At her tempting and adamant offer, his lips bore the slightest hint of a smile, and his gaze gradually lowered to her lips, his mind suddenly craving the forbidden. There it was, a request for him to accept. Nights filled with restless sleep, of her warmth, her scent, of _her_ consuming his thoughts, here lay the cure for it. _Just one taste... and all would perish._

Alas, Altair was not a weak man. He knew the difference between desire driven by delusion and consciousness driven by sheer logic. He was always self-aware of his mind-set and strategic resolutions, and stealing a kiss from the female was simply inconceivable. Now and for all the days to come.

Still carrying the barest hint of the smile, he lifted his gaze up—and found her pupils dilated. She offered no word, didn't have to, because the heavy attraction sizzling between them spoke many volumes. "Just... keep breathing, Farah," he calmly said in contrast to the muscles of his throat now constricting.

He spoke true. As long as those lungs of hers worked, he wanted nothing else from her.

At his words, her lips parted wide, her breath hitched, and she stilled under his touch. Then, palming his cheeks, she ushered him close whilst she herself inched into his space. That moment, no matter the slight surprise his eyes bore at her bold move, his body heated, and a fire was set deep in his abdomen.

Can't. Too dangerous. This is just desire, something I can defeat. Move, assassin, he commanded. But he stayed rooted in place.

"How can I keep breathing when you take my breath away with such words?" she croaked out, her face lowering towards his and her eyes resting on his lips. That act alone was encouragement enough. She shouldn't be looking down there.

And yet, she just had to say that, didn't she? Foolish female.

Evoking a low growl that reverberated from deep in his chest, Altair, with the hand resting on her cheek, moved to cup her nape, and met her in the middle, causing their noses to brush against each other. It was a position they always found themselves in but never dared to close the remaining distance.

She gasped, her hot breath fanning his lips.

Too good. Very wrong. Need.

His eyes hotly collided with hers, lingering for a moment, then he tilted his head sideways, making his nose press against the softness of her cheek.

"Altair," she rasped out. "When the planks began to fall, when they were so close to squash me, I desired one thing and one thing only. To see you. And I nearly lost you..." She frowned a little, as if understanding something. "I just realized I would've left without knowing... this. The _feel_ of you."

He sternly grinded his teeth against each other. He did not know if the near-death experience surged a bolder side of her or brought out the most emotional feelings, only knew that she had to stop saying such words, because, hell, what a shame it would be if they really departed without knowing the feel of their lips pressed together.

Can't think like that. Put an end to this, assassin. Take your hand away.

Instead, he found himself asking, "Ever kissed before?"

Instantly he knew it was the wrong question, because when her eyes widened, when her breath hitched, and she mildly shook her head, an electric current shot from the base of his spine to the tail, circling around and feeding his manhood. His lower muscles tightened almost painfully, and he hardened.

She then stuttered out, "W-Well, E-Edwardo did kiss me, but it was not a kiss. It was more of a violation. Other than that... no one has... ever..."

At her words, his insides birthed turmoil and darkness, and the most lethal side of his character sprung forth. He should've taken his time with that pig. An overwhelming sense of possession nearly blanked out his mind as he, with his free hand, gripped the edge of the bed, right next to her thigh, and nearly snapped the wood.

_Mine_, the single word echoed in his mind.

No, he recoiled in alarming horror. Not mine. Never.

"Altair," she breathed out, impatient. Excited, even. "Are you... Are we..."

Mind coming back to the current situation, the fire in his lower torso heating to dangerous temperatures, he further tightened his grip on the wood. This time it was not in anger but with the strong urge to resist the temptation.

Don't do this, Ibn La-Ahad. Back away. Leave.

But, "What you experienced was not a kiss, no. It was an abomination. This is the kiss of a man," he found himself uttering, and brought his lips down upon hers.

Just before contact, he caught himself. They were only a whisper away. She softly gasped, her big brown pools meeting his golden hawk-like ones. As he held her eyes, his mind still battled with his body, causing the wood under his grip to slightly crumble around the edges.

_Don't follow through._

_Do it, make her forget that horrid memory of the Templar's abuse, and replace it with your own._

To hell with it, he'd make her forget Edwardo ever dared to lay his heinous mouth on hers.

She might've read his decision from his eyes, because her pupils dilated even bigger.

Not breaking eye contact, he once... twice brushed the softness of his lips against hers. Her eyes immediately fluttered shut and her fingers travelled to the back of his head, burying them in his strands.

That act alone broke the tether to his control—with a deep growl, he urgently claimed her mouth with his, causing both their chins and noses to press against their faces.

A muffled sound escaped her, and she tightened her hold on him.

Oh, hell. She was soft against him. Silky. _Heaven_.

Need more.

Angling his head, he deepened the contact, moving his lips against hers that'd surely bruise the soft petals. Her fingers dug into his scalp, emitting a groan from him. The sound surprised him. He wasn't that easily pleased, but with her, every action evoked electrical sensations.

At his groan, she followed it with a moan that tickled his lips. He wanted to swallow it, feel it vibrate down his throat. The urge was so strong that the wood at the mercy of his hold finally snapped. Both of them ignored it, and he tossed the piece away, instead wrapping his arm around her lower backside. He tugged her closer, causing her legs to part and cradle his sides.

_Stop, Altair. End this_, his inner voice let out, briefly stalling him in his ministrations. _This is a mistake_.

With all the remaining fight in his soul, he managed to break contact. A whine of protest emerged from the female's lips.

"No, please." She gasped for breath. "Don't stop. Need more."

Not even catching her next breath, she, with force, pushed off the bed and at him, and Altair couldn't contain his balance as he fell to the floor. She fell on him and claimed his lips with intensity unlike any other.

A satisfied sigh escaped her lips at the moment of contact, and Altair, straightening to a sitting position and tightening his hold around her waist, deeply meshing her body to his, was soon lost in the feel of her. Gone was the last restraint on his persistence to resist. His fights died away. It was only them. Only her.

He angled her face sideways. "Open your mouth," he commanded.

Confused, panting, she blinked at him. "What? Why?"

Ever the questioner, he nearly groaned in impatience. "Now, before I do so with my tongue."

Moaning, she tried to disobey, but he, using that to his advantage, wasted no second as he thrust his tongue inside, dying to know the taste of her. Almost instantly she clung to him, drawing him near. And when his searching tongue finally found her retreated one, with a smooth flex, he laved it against hers.

A bolt of energy erupted at the moment of contact, spreading through his body, pressuring it. Burning it. She, too, jolted, and then deeply moaned. This time, he swallowed the moan.

So good. Feels so good.

This was far better than his dreams. This was _real_, she was responding to his every touch. No wonder he never got to taste her in his nightly visions, because it deserved to be felt wide awake, when he knew he wouldn't wake up any second now and watch it all fade away.

Need more. Have to have more.

He kissed her, constantly brushing his hot tongue against hers, seeking the soft muscle, tasting it, teasing it. She was a heady mix of grapes and apples, and he couldn't get enough. Would never get enough. One taste? Hell, no.

"Wider," he got out a command.

"Altair," she said with a sigh. "More. Don't stop."

Her encouragement fuelled him further. Burying his hand in her rich hair, fisting it, even, he claimed her rough and hard. He took and gave, and she followed his every stroke with a moan and an arch of her body. They pulled away for breath, and he lowered his head to kiss her smooth throat. When he found her quickening pulse, he covered it with his hot mouth and laved at it with his tongue.

She tugged a handful of his hair, maybe even ripping out a few strands, but he didn't care. He wanted more.

Yes, more.

He sucked, bit, and smoothened the sting with his tongue. She moaned and groaned, bucking her body against his.

"Altair!" she cried out his name, the sound music to his ears. Grabbing his head, she jerked him up, and bit her red and kiss-swollen lips. "I want to kiss you. But this time, I'll do the tasting." Without giving him time to digest her words, she slammed her lips against his, and he immediately opened up. _Taste me all you want_.

Her tongue darted out and entered his mouth, seeking his flavour. He eagerly met her in the middle, clashing their tongues together in a hot mess. She was a fast learner, and he liked that. Too much for his own good.

Breathless with need, they hungrily devoured each other. They've been deprived of this for too long. Farah, the woman he rescued under a thundering rain. Farah, the woman he accepted as his partner-in-crime. Farah, the woman who betrayed him in the end, leaving him to die in cold-blood. Now that same blood scorched in his veins, turning into lava. Farah, the woman who begged to owe up to everything and reclaim his trust. If only she knew she had it all along.

Farah. _My_ Farah.

He nipped at her chin, her delicate jaw, before claiming her lips again. She panted, she sighed. She begged, she ordered.

"Am I doing well?" she gasped out as he fisted her hair. _Killing me_.

Roughly breathing against each other, they peered into each other's heated pools. Her pupils were dilated, the black gobbling up the brown. Her cheeks were red, her lips redder. He'd never witnessed a more beautiful sight.

"You're driving me mad," he groaned out.

Her arms rested on his shoulders, and she, keeping him close, arched her body against his.

At the friction, her eyes fluttered closed and a moan parted her lips. "You feel so good," she sighed, arching once more. "It's not fair."

He nearly scoffed but her third arch caused him to grunt instead. He felt good? She felt incredible.

"Altair." She kissed him on the lips. "I... I need something. I don't know, but I need..."

At her jumbled words, his nostrils flared, and he fiercely cupped her buttocks.

"Ah!" she quickly released, even jumping a little, surprised at his touch. Her legs cradled his lap, the act sending her deeper into his touch, and he could feel the heat of her even past his own robes. The knowledge of that nearly sent him propelling over the edge of his control.

"Need what, Farah?" he questioned. "This?" Before she could offer a reply, he, gripping at her, rammed her core in to his erection. The hardest part of him pressed against her softest.

Her head flew back. "Yes!" she shouted in utter bliss. "Yes, yes, yes. Again! Please."

He rammed her in once more, earning a loud moan from her and a hiss from himself. It felt too good. She felt too good. When he did it again, his hips jerked up and met hers in the middle, and it derived a long moan from them both. Claiming her mouth, he forced his tongue past her teeth, and she eagerly responded, clutching at his shoulders with all her strength.

He licked her, teased her, sucked her. Bit at her, then smoothened the sting with another tease. All the while she writhed against him, pushing herself on him to achieve even the briefest taste of release. He run his palms over her body, her curves, her backside, studying every inch of her. Loving every inch of her.

"I want to more than taste you," she said, breaking away from him. "Altair, don't let go. Please. Don't let go." So fearful she'd sounded. So desperate, it brought out the most possessive side of him.

Without waiting for his response, she kissed his jaw, tunnelling her fingers in his hair, kissed his chin, then, with her tongue, traced the scar marring the edge of his mouth. A deep, animalistic growl vibrated from within his chest, and his hardened length twitched with need. With the unbearable need to fill her, right here and now. He wanted to penetrate her hot, tight walls until both of them thrashed and tussled for their release, each doing whatever necessary to achieve it.

"I've always wanted to do that," she admitted, brushing their noses together and purring against him.

Always wanted to do that? Had she desired him that long? The knowledge of that should not have turned him on more than he already was, but it did, and suddenly his skin was too tight for his bones. He shook with the utter drive to claim her.

With a low snarl, he slammed his mouth against hers, and then bit her lower lip. Hard.

She sharply inhaled, then released a cry of pleasure. He tugged the petal with his teeth, then sucked it. Their already heated kiss should not have been able to get hotter, but it did. It soon spun out of control. Their mouths parted wide, their tongues duelled for dominance, their teeth banged and scraped against each other. He fisted her hair, angling her head to take her deeper. She writhed and moaned, and their hips rocked and grinded together, mimicking their tongues.

He, snaking an arm around her waist, thrust in to her core, causing her to cry out and him to groan.

He did it again. And again. Soon they were a bucking, writhing and panting mess, and he never wanted to be untangled from this.

"Don't stop!" she shouted, desperately clawing at his shoulders. "I'm so—" She loudly moaned when he took her deeper. Harder. Faster. He suddenly hated the clothes standing in their way.

"Altair!" she cried out his name. "I need—" One thrust. "I want—" Another thrust. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" she soon began chanting.

He fiercely grunted, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead as he kissed her with abundance. Her needs and wants, he shall grant.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Open up wider," he made out, the knock completely ignored. She spread her legs farther apart, falling deeper into his lap. "That's the way," he praised. Grabbing her hips, surely bruising them, he lifted her up—only to brutally slam her right down. A cry of utter pleasure lurched from her mouth, and he quickly meshed their lips together and eagerly swallowed the sound. He didn't expect it to vibrate his throat this deliciously, causing him to emit a deep and long groan of his own.

Another knock, this one much rapid.

"Farah," he rasped out her name when her fingers clutched a handful of his hair and she bit at his neck.

When the third knock resounded, it reached his ears, and something lifted Altair from his foggy, desire-filled mind, the outside world gradually saluting him. He had to pause in his ministrations for a second. His breath, his body, his heart, he commanded them to gain control, and the haze from his eyes began to vanish.

Then, he abruptly stilled, hands gripping her hips tightly.

_Wait..._ Realization dawned. Then horror. Then the instant urge to act. He lifted Farah off of him, tossing her to the ground, and bolted to his feet.

She _ooof_'d as air abandoned her lungs and, turning, she looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes that now bore alarm.

What has he done? What the hell was he thinking?

If the knock from the outer world had not intruded, he might've even taken her all the way. He recoiled at the idea, stepping away from her figure.

She frowned, then rose to definitely wobbling and weak legs. "Alta—" she began but he cut her off.

"No, no more." He roughly breathed in and out, his body yet to cool down, his heart yet to slow down, his mouth yet to forget her taste. His palms, his skin, yet to forget the feel of her warmth. He even carried the slight hint of her jasmine scent on him, and each inhalation caused his nostrils to flare and desire to still feed the fire in his veins. He had to sternly clench his jaw muscles to gain needed control. His hands balled into tight fists, the knuckles leaching out of colour so he wouldn't reach for her again.

Damnation, he just wanted to give her a kiss to make her forget about Edwardo's, but he sure as hell did not attempt to do _this_. Driving them to the edge of insanity, to the point of no return, the only way back through complete fulfilment.

What have you done, Ibn La-Ahad?

Distance. He needed distance.

"Altair, please. Did I do something wrong? I can learn. Just give me a chance." She hesitantly licked her lips, dark brown pools still swirling with desire. She tried to step forth, to reach him, but he bluntly told her to stay where she was.

"Do not near me. You wanted to know the feel of me, well, now you do. We can both die happy now."

She frowned, and the heat began to disappear from her eyes. "What? But I need—"

"What you need is to understand," he coldly interjected. Yes, be harsh. Drive her away. And he knew exactly what words to say even when his insides tied into a knot at their cruelty. "This changes _nothing_ between us. It _means_ nothing."

She loudly gasped, as if she just received a slap on the face. He might as well had done that for her expression contorted to one of such hurt, of such anguish, tears began to roll down her cheeks. She angrily wiped them away, and this scene alone managed to break his heart.

Harden up, assassin, he harshly reminded himself.

This was essential for his people's survival. Their sake came before his. This was the very reason he didn't want to grant her the chance to earn his trust back, because she'd alter everything he believed in. But no matter his determined reasoning, he hated himself for hurting her, and suddenly wished one of the planks had squashed to a pulp so he wouldn't have gotten them to such a situation.

He couldn't hide the remorseful expression even when he, coolly and sincerely, said, "Forgive me." _But this is for the greater good_, he silently added. "It was not my intention to... I will never touch you again, you have my word."

She narrowed her wet, spiky lashes at him, her lips trembled, and tears still skidded down her face. Then, with voice so low, so damaged, emerging from her very broken soul, she gritted, "_Get out._"

She faced away from him, shielding her face, and Altair found himself speechless. Not because he didn't await her to utter such words, he actually expected more, but because he suddenly felt miles away from her. She was so far off, so lost to him. And yet Altair knew, deep in his soul, that if he approached her now, if he gently tilted her face towards his, and permitted whatever that had occurred between them to develop, she'd welcome him. Or give him a chance.

But... no. This was for the best, he assured himself.

"The healer most probably has come. Let him tend to your injury." With that, he turned on his heels and strode away. Each step he took, each agonizing stride, the strings attaching them together stretched with the ever increasing distance, and, one by one, began tear and snap. Even if they were physically not there, he felt and heard them breaking, until there were no strings bonding them together.

Strangers anew.

Straightening, he tugged the door open, spotted the healer and the Cadet, and coldly ordered, "She's in there. Take good care of her."

With that, he walked away, her taste still lingering in his mouth.

-x-

_Just keep breathing, Farah_.

Those words... those alone managed to break her down and build her up anew. They melted her, made her feel so worthy, so... valuable. Like a treasure. Her insides had erupted in rapture, and she couldn't help but near him. Feel him. _Want_ him.

The sensations she'd harboured for many weeks, hell, maybe even since the moment they met, exploded and moulded together, giving her the courage to go through her urges. Once, at least once, she wanted to feel cherished, to feel alive. But more than that, she wanted—would die if she didn't—to know the taste of him.

When he'd asked her if she ever kissed before, when he neared her, putting his lips over hers, every cell in her body had come alive, and she'd held onto him for dear life. Feared that if she let go, she'd get lost in the swarming sea of desire, never to be sated.

With him, her insides had rejoiced—especially her heart. Her body had found a reason to exist in this cruel, harsh world. And when his tongue had sought out hers, she realized in wonderment how two worlds had existed within her all this time. One was the natural one, where one ate and drank and spoke. The second was the carnal one, where one tasted, teased, bit and derived moans of pleasure from one's partner. How meek and dull her life had been, how colourful and full of stars had it become when Altair kissed her.

Altair. Kissing her.

The knowledge of that alone had caused heat to pool in-between her thighs, and it'd gotten wetter and wetter as he worked his magic on her body. She _ached_ so bad, so strong, it almost hurt to pull away from him. She hadn't realized it would be this good, this sensational. He made her aware of her own body parts she hadn't known existed with their own purpose. He'd pleasured her like no one else before him had. Had touched her in manners no one had dared to do so. Had tasted, had stolen pieces of her she couldn't even clutch onto. He'd taken her to heights she never knew existed, and as he'd given her throbbing core a taste of his hard length, over and over again, she, loving and praising the feel of him, had sensed something build up inside her. All she desired was to explode in his arms, release herself from all the wonderful pain and pleasure crating her in.

He was getting her there, to the world unexplored before, but... he'd stopped.

Had pushed her aside like she meant nothing, like he hadn't had his tongue in her mouth just a minute ago.

And when he'd told her this changed nothing between them, that it meant _nothing,_ her very soul had crumbled inside her body. His words were sharper than the sharpest knife, slicing at her mercilessly. She'd teared up at the agony it brought, at the flames of hell it set her soul on.

Push her away? _Fine_.

Tell her no more even when she was so close to the edge of glory? _Fine_.

But to declare that it was nothing, when it meant _everything_ to her, to tell her it changed nothing, when it changed her whole world? That was brutality incarnate. How damaged she'd been, how hurt. Had he no heart? No feelings? Did those things really equalled nothing to him?

When he stated he'd never touch her again, disappointment had crashed down on her, nearly propelling her to the very ground itself. Never touch her again, never evoke throbbing pleasure? No, please. Her entire body had cried out in protest. Her heart had sobbed. Her eyes had shed tears. But to save herself from damnation, from promised misery, she'd told him to get out. Her pride was wounded, her very soul was crushed, and if he remained a second longer, she would have curled into a ball and broken down.

As he'd left, her body had still reached out for him, not getting enough of his touches, but she'd stayed rooted in place with burning eyes. Something between them had snapped, and he'd transformed to someone she didn't recognize. When the healer entered, she'd toughened up and went through the procedure. He tended to her back, putting ointment and wrapping it up, and had taken his leave.

An hour later, Zainab and Maryam had checked up on her, learning of the incident. She'd forced a smile and told them everything was well. After a short talk, they'd taken their leave as well, wanting she received the rest she needed.

And now here she lay, empty and wounded, when stars twinkled high in the sky. She brought her blanket up and covered her body until her chin, sniffing and forcing herself to forget everything that has happened but terribly failing.

He'd touched her. That thought alone was able to make her weak in the knees. It still even bombarded her. If someone had told her yesterday that Altair and her would have a hot make-out session, she would've laughed at their faces.

The man who'd rather steer clear of her than give her the chance to be his friend again? The man who'd promised to kill her, to give her hell? Please.

But it _did_ happen. They did kiss. They did touch and leave their marks on each other. She carried the bruises of his fingertips on her hips, and the one on her neck stung every time she brushed it.

And he did not kill her, didn't torture her like her father had. He'd been merciful. Kind. He'd given her everything except himself—until now.

The essence of him still lingered on her skin. Her mouth remembered the delicious, masculine taste of him. Her ears his throaty groans and grunts, each sound further enticing her. Her hands his muscular form, every caress earning her a twitch and ripple, as if reaching for her. She recalled the feel of his arms wrapping around her, holding her close, as if afraid to let her go. She thought of his broad palms sweeping over her curves, as if studying every inch of her.

Her eyes fluttered closed at the sensations the memories were brewing within her, making her body temperature rise.

He said he'd give her the kiss of a man, and oh, God, how he'd demonstrated. But what he gave wasn't the kisses or touches of a man, no. It was otherworldly. He was more than man. More than human. And she suddenly ached for him. She desired to be near him again. She wanted the freedom to hold him once more, to clutch at him, to tunnel her fingers in his soft hair and tug at them.

She shuddered, and her skin was covered in goose bumps. Her palms itched. Her heart quickened its pace. Her belly quivered deliciously and heat shot straight to her core.

"No, no. I cannot," she moaned out in distress. She flipped to her other side, shaking her head.

In the silence, she lay, thinking.

If he really felt nothing, why would he have held her like that? If it meant nothing, why even attempt to kiss?

She went back to the moment. In her hurt and agony, she recalled seeing the remorse written on his face, the apology. He'd lost control, that's what the expression translated. If a man was indifferent to such touches, why even feel the guilt? Or better, how lose all control?

Her lips slowly parted in the darkness of the night as her eyes enlarged. She gasped.

No, she was over-thinking this whole event. But...

Farah rose to a sitting position, really going over every detail. From the very beginning. She cast her hurt aside and took a solid minute to ponder.

A year ago, she'd stabbed him, nearly killed him. He'd sought revenge, sought to end her as she'd shamelessly tried, but didn't. He took her captive, placed her in the dungeon, but fed her. Instead of acting on his will to finally take her life, he'd used the golden sphere—that is what he used, or else she wouldn't have emerged unharmed—to interrogate her. Then he'd given her a place in his home, a job so she could not lead herself to poverty, and friends. He'd wanted nothing from her, no payment, and everything he's done was evidently out of amiability.

And today he'd risked his life to save hers.

And then he'd kissed her.

He _did_ care for her, even if it was little. There was something he felt for her, or else he wouldn't have done the things he did. He would not have lost all control if he deemed what they shared as nothing. He would not have bared remorse if he thought her undeserving of apology, as though he loathed himself for getting them to such an extent.

Yes, a part of him clearly saw this as wrong, and that side was the reason he might've said all the hurtful words he did. But he definitely did not deem what they shared as nothing. What she felt for him, the longing, the desire, he felt it back. To some extent, he must. Because an unfeeling man would have simply pecked her on the lips, maybe not even approach her, but Altair had held her as if his life had depended on it.

Struck with the revelation, Farah's mouth hung agape.

She felt so vain, so utterly weak when a small flicker of hope bloomed to life in her heart, but did not give the feelings any heed.

He cared!

And then another thought struck her, and she found herself smiling. She would not give up.

She would hold on tight.

In other words, she'd fight him. For him.

Not touch her again? Please. She'd make him beg for it, and whatever obstacle that stood in their way, they'd get over it. Too selfish of her? Maybe. But it was selfish of him to give her a taste and then snatch it away.

Tomorrow he wanted her at the main office. She would come, and she hoped he would too. She'd learn if he really felt something for her once and for all, but her heart would always be on guard. It'd be a bloody battle; he was an assassin, after all. But it was a battle she was determined to win.

With renewed contentment, she lay back on her bed and closed her eyes.

_Altair Ibn La-Ahad, you have no idea what's coming for you_.

-x-

1191, the road to Masyaf

For a full day, Sarah was doing extremely well when following the assassin. She'd be at least hundred feet away from him, the treads and neighs of her horse lost in the distance separating them, when following him. It was going all good until, well, he noticed. It wasn't even the second day when she'd been caught.

One moment, he was perched atop his stallion, going on a leisure pace, and the next, the horse was missing a rider. She'd blinked, thinking she was not seeing right. But when she neared the spot, something heavy had pushed her off her horse, and she'd slammed down on the ground.

The assassin had been waiting atop a tree, and had aimed at the right time. When he'd tugged her cloak off, he realized he was pointing a dagger towards a female. She used that to her advantage and pushed him off of her.

As she tried to run to her horse, he'd knocked her off her feet, and she fell again. He'd pressed down on her shoulders with his knees, enabling any movement, and had questioned harshly. "Who are you and why are you following me?"

Sarah had mustered enough courage to form a very innocent and scared face. The latter she was, because one of the infamous killers had her pinned down to the dirt of the ground. She'd blabbered out, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to alarm you! I was lost! On my way to... Tripoli. Yes, but I couldn't find my way and spotted you. I thought following you would lead me to a certain destination with people. Please, don't hurt me."

After tossing her wary looks, he'd tied her and her horse to a tree, and gave off a location of a nearby town that was five miles off to the West. After that, he'd mounted his horse and rode away, leaving her. By tying her up, he made sure she wouldn't follow him until he was too far off for her to sight. Just in case. It'd be silly if he truly did believe her but strapped her nonetheless, abandoning her to die, but what he actually did after that took her off-guard. He calculated the rise of the sun, extended the end of the rope and wrapped it around a twig before planting the wood into the ground, and placed a mirror beside the rope.

When the sun was high and hot enough, it hit the mirror right in the middle, and the mirror shot the ray to the rope, thus burning it and freeing her. By that time, it was hours later. The assassin was gone.

My chance, my one and only chance, and I blew it!

Frustrated and furious, she'd mounted her horse and travelled to the town he mentioned. This just meant she'd start anew. From scratch. Damn, damn, damn!

By the time she reached the town, she was worn out and exhausted, and she rented a room for the night. For the next past days, she thought of a new plan. They were clearly heading North, she just had to know where exactly. That meant getting a map. Purchasing the needed paper, she examined the roads they took and the cities resting above. She'd actually start by Tripoli. Then head up to Homs, then Tortosa, and then Hamah and so on. This whole journey would take her months, but she'd do it.

She just prayed Farah was well and alive by the time she actually found her.

Wrapping everything up, Sarah mounted her horse and sped towards the foreign cities.

-x-

**AN:** _Yussssss, they finally did it._ _Let the games begin!_


	27. Chapter 27

What We Can't Have

Chapter Twenty-Seven

1191, Masyaf

Despite the bold thoughts, the determined aims, and the courage she'd inspired just the previous night, Farah awoke with a heavy heart and lay in bed for a long while afterwards.

Groggily, frowning, she sat upright, her blanket pooling around her waist.

It felt as though she could think clearly now, but clearly indicated with doubts. Insecurities that had a ring of truth to them.

Two things burdened her. One, it was that this was completely wrong. The assassin distinctly said he didn't wish for her friendship, and one could not force it upon anybody unwilling. She understood his words; everybody had the _freedom_ to choose, to belong to someone. Another obstacle was that he truly might care for her but would not voice it aloud only just show it. And that was a great and special representation but she wanted to win the battle with honesty and definitely by character wise. Using her allure was... well, everybody could be a seducer. She wanted him to appreciate her for _her_, not for something that was merely physical and did not cut deeper than skin. She wanted it to be deeper. All the way to her soul. She just desired... an ever after. But that, too, was a problem. The flirting part, that is. She could not properly stand still before him so how was she to touch him, feel him, when she herself would explode into flames? She did not have any experience in that field. But hey, if one wanted lessons on how to survive the deprivation of fatherly love? _I'm your girl_.

And burden number two was, well, drawing her knees to her chest, she released a deep sigh. She liked him. A lot. To her, it cut deeper than skin, and that frightened her.

It filled her with awe, even. As she contemplated their standing point, she realized something grounding. Never had she ever admitted to herself she liked him. At times she found him attractive, alluring, almost, but she hadn't said anything to indicate she would voice aloud words so special. So dear. It was so _unlike_ them to voice anything. The second they came in contact, they'd attack each other with spiteful words. But when situations proved to be dangerous, they'd flip personalities and immediately care for each other's safety. It was a paradox. They were a paradox.

And the kiss yesterday was proof enough. How heatedly they were mocking their features, how heavily, but when the planks began to descend, how passionately had they clung to each other, how desperately. Not once had she ever mused they'd end up pressing their bodies together like they did. After all the indifference, it felt as though their true colours had finally burst out, filling the room, and it bombarded her to now think how utterly truthful their kiss was. She even went to the extent of thinking it was expectant. Its occurrence almost inevitable, as if they, with the situations they found themselves in and how they reacted to them, were especially lead to it blindfolded.

The kiss was the key that unlocked the chains to their innermost emotions, and now she could no longer fool herself. She could no longer deny the sensations brewing within, because the urge to be his friend again, willing to do anything to gain his trust back, now had a great objective to it, and that was that she liked him. Whole-heartedly. He was dear to her. She possessed a big spot for him in her heart that no other could replace.

Every moment they spent with each other, every heartbeat that took its honest pump, was filled with them showing their blind care and sincere respect for each other. But never had they said the words aloud; they weren't even _aware_ of them. Their acts, from their smallest gestures to their biggest, was laid out with no acknowledgement; only the winds were aware of them, and they carried them away, ruffling and shuffling the leaves, and to them did they solely speak.

How instinctively they'd bared their souls without having any idea of their crime whatsoever. One moment and that's all it took to rip their chests open and grip at their hearts, dragging out movements of carnal earnestness.

Had they not been earnest?

Had they not touched each other with passion unexpected of them?

Had they not trusted each other enough to cause thunderous storms to ignite the blood in their veins, each thin veiny-branch alike lightening bolt striking amidst thick, roaring crimson clouds, bringing the whole city of their cells to life?

Had they not feared in the midst of the storm, dreading they'd fall apart, the harsh typhoons capable of sweeping them away with one blow? And had they not been bold, surrendering to the breezes and wanting to actually get lost because they _believed_ they'd find each other again?

She hugged her knees tightly to her chest and placed her forehead on them.

They had. They truly had. But where did that leave them?

Why was it _so_ _hard_?

Sniffing, she turned her head and pressed her cheek against the strong bones, her eyes lost in the image the stony wall before her was giving.

He cared, but what if it wandered no further than that? What if he actually meant his words? What if he genuinely thought this altered nothing between them, that it amounted to mere dust?

What if he thought the whole stage a mistake?

At the last ideation, her chest pained.

But then again, what if he thought nothing at all and whatever he performed was of sheer sincerity? Altair was not a man who bowed down to dishonesty. Hypocrisy. It was a side of him she'd always admired and respected. Hence the conclusion to her doubts—he was not one to degrade a soul.

But then why say words so marring? So knife-sharp if the actions that followed were genuine? Why was she pining over here while he got to depart with cold nonchalance? Had he not felt what she did?

What was stopping him from approaching her in that manner again, especially when they clearly enjoyed it?

Did he conclude her unworthy?

At that thought, her heart stopped. It just stopped, because finally there was a reason to why he could have acted in the manner he did.

Just like she was unworthy of reclaiming his trust back, she was more so of claiming his affection. Ineligible for whatever they could develop if ever they tried. It all made sense now.

He might've felt the way she had, might've desired her with magnitude the way she had him, but when he deemed everything that'd transpired between as nothing, one colour shone brighter than the rest, and it was the truest of them all. He was _repulsed_ by it. What his body felt, his mind rejected.

This was the reason why she awoke with a heavy heart, because some part of her saw what her eager heart had not, and this was why fighting for him, with him, became too hard a task to see through. What was the point to struggle for someone when they already saw one as unworthy as a child once had been to her father?

No fights could change what he upheld a belief as strong as religion.

Farah gradually lifted her head and, with her hands, covered her sorrow-struck face.

What had she been thinking? She had lost even before the fight began.

Altair not capable of degrading a soul? Oh, how wrong she'd judged. He'd shamed her to degrees unescapable. Perhaps it had not been his intention to do so, but after the kiss, after his retrieval, he'd done what she thought he'd never do. He'd played with fire and escaped unscathed while she still burned. He abandoned her to her ashes.

Uncovering her face, she lifted her head. But despite it all, everything within her still cried out for him. She still desired to gain back his trust. She still wished to be his friend again. Be more than his friend, if they dared. She could not put the entire blame on him, because a part of his actions was decided in the wake of hers. He acted the way he did because she'd acted the way she had, destroying all they had built in one moment. And even when he'd pardoned her, he'd never let his down guard again.

Fight for him? The idea once again bloomed in her mind.

Fight for what could be? Just alike the kiss that had inspired locked confessions of the very nature of their true status to unravel, could this fight open the passageway for more? Could she dare hope?

Did she possess the strength to be strong for the both of them?

Why not? she next pondered. Why not break every wall he'd ever built to keep her out? Why not break her own walls to reach his? Why not bare their souls to each other again the way they had yesterday? Whatever did she have to lose?

Her pride? Her dignity? Why worry losing them when one was determined enough to acknowledge it would never come to that? If she actually believed she'd win the battle, why doubt herself?

_But is he still worth the risk?_ a thought interjected, making her pause in her haste.

_Is he worth jeopardizing everything you are?_

Her cheeks suddenly turned crimson, and she pursed her lips in embarrassment because the word 'Yes' almost instantly popped up.

Yes, he was worth every ounce of blood she'd shed because, God dammit, she was worth it, too! She would be fighting for herself as much as she'd be for him. And whatever they'd share in the end weighed more than her pride.

She wanted to _at least_ try.

She'd tried for her freedom, even stabbing him in process to claim it, and she'd succeeded—even though it lasted for a short while. She'd stab him again if it somehow meant awakening buried confessions that could lead them both to victory.

They'd both spill blood, both lose and gain in the process, because just like he said a year before, his words echoing in her mind, she was on a mission, and she'd stumble and fall, but what mattered was the outcome.

Once again hope fuelled with determination branded her every cell with a goal, and she found her heart quickening.

She really was going to do this, wasn't she?

She really was going to a bloody battle.

And like every fight, one needed a shield to protect one's life. She needed to protect her heart, thus her dignity. Until this battle has seen an end, she would not unveil her beating organ. The assassin would be merciless, because he'd be protecting his own. He'd come at her with a sword unleashed and she'd have to brave it.

"I'm really going to do this," she whispered, struck by the declaration. She was both afraid and excited, and oddly both lent her courage and strength.

She curtly nodded. "I'm going to do this. Yes, I will."

That was final. No backing out.

Exhaling a shaky breath and feeling braver than she'd ever felt before, Farah rose and padded her way to the bathroom to bathe.

-x-

The process took more than its usual amount but she did not regret it. Bathing with fine jasmine-scented soaps, and then drying herself to wear a silky purple tunic, tight black slacks, and knee-length leather boots, she appeared presentable. She combed her hair, smoothening it, and instead of tying it into a knot, she separated a handful from the top and braided it, leaving the rest of her rich hair cascading down her back. She pinched her cheeks to give them some colour and bit her lips to make them redder.

Since small rain-drops pattered against her window, the morning was cold and it would only get worse, hence why she donned her cloak over her body. Finally, putting ointment to her fingers, she bandaged them up. Giving herself a look-over, she concluded she looked better than all the days that had come before this.

Seduction, she would not attempt. And not because she was such a goody-goody, but because she really did not know how to maneuver in that field. But make herself look presentable? That she could do.

With a much pleased mood than the one she'd woken up to, she strode to her door and exited the room, making her way straight to the main central base of the fortress.

Her insides began to shake in approaching excitement, and her belly tightened, making her quite nervous. Would he be there? Was he waiting for her perhaps? How would they interact when clearly the episode that took place yesterday would always be interfering their thoughts?

_Okay, make a plan. Train yourself to look indifferent. Blink innocently, carry yourself like you have no fault whatsoever, and be normal and natural. Calm your heart, channel your each breath with precision, but mainly don't be cold, just... be good natured. Also, give nothing away. You're on your own in this._

Her own advises were making her more jittery, hence she quickly shook her head and straightened, quickening her pace. When she rounded the library, spotting guards in their natural position before the walls, she suddenly heard voices coming from above the stairs.

Her heart instantly leapt to her throat. No, no, calm. CALM!

_Okay, I got this._ Clearing her throat, she ascended the stairs and made her way through the narrow hallway and to the office. Her eyes immediately spotted two figures, one was Malik and the other one was—

Heart. Heart quickening. The city bells began ringing in her head, as though in warning. Was she always going to react in this manner?

While Malik stood with his front to the desk, examining some papers on it, Altair stood right next to him. He was leaning against the edge of the table with his broad back to her, had his arms crossed, and appeared to be speaking for Malik slowly nodded.

As she got closer, her ears picked up the conversation. "—If the assassins are being recruited from their missions and they'll arrive tomorrow being the latest, I want the blacksmiths to forge replicas of the Hidden Blade. I gave you the blue-print and instructions on every detail is included."

"I understand. It is a great achievement what you did, Altair. New set of metal? It is very outstanding," Malik said, lifting his head. At that exact moment, his eyes caught her approaching figure, and suddenly he smiled in welcome.

At the change in his expression, Altair, too, turned his head, as if to learn what made his friend smile so. When their eyes collided, everything stopped, and she staggered a little.

Not think about what happened yesterday? Impossible. It was the first thing that stormed through her mind, and she recalled his heat, the outline of his muscular body against her soft one, his rich taste, his scent. And, oh, her knees became weak.

No, no, no. Calm. CALM!

She had to stop shouting at herself.

It appeared he, too, was greeted with the reminder because he leaned away from the table, fully turning his body to her direction. As she staggered/walked her way to them, she swallowed heavily.

"Hello," she greeted throatily.

At a close view of her person, Altair's lips slightly parted behind the shadows of his arched hood, and he slowly ran his gaze down her body, taking in her current appearance.

Wait, did that mean he actually _noticed_?

Had she already made progress?

Before she could read what next appeared in his eyes, he turned away, not even returning her greeting. Instead, he said, "You came."

She managed to form a shrug. "Of course. I said I would."

"My greetings to you, too, Farah," Malik interjected.

She faced him, smiling. "I hope I'm not intruding."

The same time Malik said "No, we've just finished," Altair coldly said "You are."

Malik turned to his friend in surprise while Farah narrowed her eyes at him. _I am, huh?_ Slight anger rose inside her despite her own advise to be good natured. Screw good nature! Her claws came out.

"Oh," she released in mock-surprise, causing him to gradually crane his neck to the side to eye her. "Good." With that, she walked around the table, taking her place beside Malik and having a full view on Altair's face.

The said assassin tilted his head to the side, and now his eyes slightly narrowed at her words.

"Alright," he then coolly, lowly, almost lethally, offered. "If they are that dear to you, let's get to writing. Malik, leave us."

At his last words, she instantly straightened. Alone with Altair? The kiss still in her mind? Not a good idea. The thought suddenly frightened her. "What? No, he shouldn't."

He arched a brow. "Excuse me?

Her lips parted as she realized her mistake. Challenging the word of the mentor, good start. "Uh, I meant to say," she drawled, "It would be wise to have Malik around. For advise. Three heads work better than two."

"My head will work just fine for the two of us. Malik," Altair repeated again.

She gasped at his bold words. Oh, this man! Fight for him? She'd rather fight him first! "Excuse me?" she let out, her voice louder than she meant it to be. "What is that supposed to impose?"

"O-kay, leaving now. Work hard, you two." Patting her shoulder and Altair's, Malik grabbed the papers lying on the desk and escaped the argument that would surely follow. And follow it will! He indirectly called her stupid.

"You know what?" she smugly said, reaching for the feather-pen, ink, and blank paper resting on the desk. "I think I will do just fine writing it myself. Dear, beloved ones," she echoed the words forming in her head as she began to scribble down on the paper. "Perhaps you're wondering where I am. Oh, don't worry, I'm in Masyaf. I know, so weird. An assassin kidnapped me and now I'm—"

She couldn't finish when the paper was abruptly snatched from her grip, and she let out, "I was writing! Rude much?"

He crumpled the paper and then tossed it aside, his expression neutral yet cold, distant, almost, and she nervously licked her lips. "If you want to waste time, do that when you're out of my vicinity. Now, sit down, and let us be done with this matter."

Eyeing him for a few heartbeats, Farah at last complied. "Fine," she sternly said, putting her palms up in surrender. "Let us do just that."

Tugging the chair, she plopped in, and jerked it closer to the table, making it awkwardly skid across the ground in the tense silence. Glancing up at Altair and his fixed unreadable look, she gave it a final skid. Without breaking eye contact, she brashly began, "So, tell me, O Wise One. How shall we begin?"

His eyes slightly narrowed, and he suddenly moved, surprising her. Instead of coming at her, as she'd assumed for reasons unknown, he strode to her back, and clasped his hands behind his body. _He's not your father,_ she then assured herself. _He won't attack you at the first sign of provocation_. "When I said my head is enough for the two of us, I didn't state it in means to offend you. My aim was to indicate I'm enough to give you proper advices, and Malik would simply be an extravagant addition. Now, take hold of a proper paper, pen and ink."

Being very aware of his presence and his discharging heat, the very of it seeping into her skin, even past her cloak, and warming her, in the process causing the thin, fair strands in the back of her neck to stand erect, she uncomfortably fidgeted in her seat. Focus, Farah. Yes, okay. She paid extreme attention to his movements, the shuffle of his boots and clothes. No, not him! The letter.

Right.

Clearing her throat, she took hold of the essential items and awaited his next command.

One stride, two, he leisurely paced behind her. "Begin with a greeting, as is the custom, but do not mention names. It is for our sake as much as theirs. However they used to call you, write so in that manner."

She nodded, and felt her chest ache. They called her their second daughter. She sniffed, swallowing down the approaching tears. This was going to be tough. Writing the words 'Dear, loved ones', she mumbled out a, "Then?"

The pacing suddenly stopped, and she felt the heat of two eyes boring into her back. He was... looking at her? _Don't turn around_, she warned herself. After a few heartbeats, he continued, voice low yet stern. "I will keep the letter short and to the point, hence do not feel burdened. I know it is hard for you."

Eyes still on the paper, she offered a meek nod. He understood, and the speed of his sudden attentiveness on her very person was bewildering if not heart stirring.

"Say, 'I write to you from distant yet safe lands, and admit my uncalled letter might kindle confusion and worry, but neither you shan't be. I'm safe and well, but current details of my circumstances I cannot provide. I also cannot deny nor excuse the manner I had left, it was unforgiving. I sincerely offer my condolence for causing so much hurt and sorrow, but you shall hear from me again.' End it in any way you desire." There were the words she could not write for many weeks, and he managed to pull them off with no difficulty. But her mind caught up on something he said.

Her lips parted and her hands stilled their scribbling. With a soft frown, she turned her head to face him. "Hear from me again?"

Altair stepped closer to the table and stood to her side, gazing down at her. "Yes," he said. "If that is something you desire."

She instantly beamed. "Of course!" she shot out. "Yes, thank you! I would love to write to them more. This is incredible." Smiling, she slightly bowed her head and began finishing the letter. Instead of writing 'I sincerely offer my condolence'—since it appeared quite cold and unfamiliar to the kind of tone she used with them—she wrote 'Yet in my heart, I still selfishly wish for it. Forgive me...' and continued with Altair's advised words. As she neared the end, something mildly pulled at her dark strands, and when she, confused, dragged her eyes down to the curtain of hair shielding her face, she spotted them in-between the assassin's fingers, his thumb gently caressing over them.

Perhaps he thought she wouldn't notice, perhaps he was doing so without even realizing it, all in all, her upcoming breath got strangled in her throat and her heart began to throb with vigour.

She didn't do anything to stop it, and even when the touch was almost at the tip, she felt the sensation travel all the way up to her scalp and cause an odd tickling in her lower jaw and upper chest. It was identical with the feeling her grandma used to elicit when playing with her hair. She loved it, and she didn't want him to stop. She was even getting ready to purr.

One touch. That's all it took to topple her inner organs from balance. Pressing her lips together, she went back to writing, not noticing how her own head slightly tipped towards his touch, seeking more contact.

She ended it with 'Ever yours, your daughter. I love you' and, with so much emotion, lowered her head and gently kissed the letter with trembling lips. In the process, she had lost Altair's touch, and mourned it with even greater force of emotion.

When the black letters dried, she neatly folded the paper and extended it to Altair. He was still stationed to her side, and clasped the letter with quietness.

"It is done," she whispered, shielding the pain in her eyes by not meeting his gaze. "I'll understand if they won't respond. Ahmad," she suddenly blurted out, and clamped her lips shut. Oh, no. She was just about to spill Ahmad possessed a few messenger birds himself.

Altair arched a shadowed brow in question. At the mention of an unknown man or of her diligence to still hide certain information from him?

He shook his hooded head. "Do you actually think I'll go off to hunt him down because he is somewhat connected to you? On the side note, there are countless Ahmads in the whole of Jerusalem. Nonetheless, you fear a ridiculous notion."

"Do I?" She arched a brow of her own, still not meeting his eyes. "Acknowledging your nature and your tactics, you would find him with great ease." He could ride to Jerusalem, go to the province he found her in, knowing she surely must live close by, and ask people of man named Ahmad who took in a female called Farah. Two, three shops down and there one had it: the address.

At her words, he shrugged. "Perhaps so. It is still absurd. I'm not a madman driven with bloodlust, nor do I find you a threat to act upon. My time is of great essentiality, and wasting it is odious."

Something about the last sentence pulled a string in her mind but, not knowing why, she ignored it. Sighing, she finally met his eyes. Sharp. The first description crossed her head. He might appear tranquil in his speech but his eyes harboured razor-sharp lethality. He had his guard up more than ever, and that already beat her hopes to a pulp.

No, she adamantly squared her shoulders. No giving up; just beat him right back. Find an even flooring. Yes, she could do that.

As if reading her motives, he immediately straightened, his walls now towers. "We are done with the matter. You can go now, and the next time you wish to write again, just inform Malik. He'll advise you."

He turned to go, her letter in hand.

Farah almost immediately panicked. Done with the matter? So soon? She was dismissed? So soon? He exchanged his spot for Malik? So soon? And now he was leaving? So soon? Her thoughts spun.

Heart leaping to her right chest, she hastily struggled up from her seat. There was so much to speak about, so much to tell. She didn't want to depart this early.

"Ahmad," she blurted out in her haste, and he stilled, his back to her. She'd share a part of her past; it'd surely form some sort of bond, right? Sharing meant opening up, and opening up meant trusting. Even a little. This would be good. Okay, she braved herself.

"He is a very good man. He—and his family—took me in after the massacre in Damascus. Remember my servant? The one who interrupted us in that fateful night after my injury?"

When he didn't respond, only tilting his face to the side as if giving his attention, she continued. "Oh, well. Maybe not. But they were so good to me. They are my... family, Altair. After losing my mother, after finding her body battered and lifeless, I thought I'd never know the meaning of love again." She was sharing, she was opening up even when it felt like someone was throwing continues punches to her gut, so he'd understand. Right? He'd acknowledge her pain and permit the walls to lower a little. Right? "But," she licked her lips, "I was wrong. I loved again. I was loved again. That is why I picked up caring for the horses here." She chuckled, scratching her temple. "Ahmad used to have horses and he'd make me clean their dump. Sometimes I misbehaved, so... that was sort of like a punishment."

At last—finally!—he shifted sideways, looking at her. She couldn't read his eyes due to the shadows covering it, but knew he was somewhat frowning. "Why are you sharing with me such details, female?"

_Female_. The word blast a punch straight into her heart. He was back to that word again. No, she'd not bow. Not yet. He was attempting to keep an indifferent, distant relationship.

She shrugged. "I just wanted to let you know that I... well, don't think you a madman. That's all."

He stared at her for a long while, the space echoing only with their breaths. "The incident yesterday," he began, automatically changing the subject. She didn't mind—he was talking. "It turns out God is merciful."

She frowned. "I don't understand." There had been resentment in his tone, as if he was disappointed. And the incident came to her with formality, and with it a jolt of awareness and fear. The feeling she got after surviving the attack did not leave her for even the briefest moment. She almost felt... cursed. She shuddered.

"It appears the wooden barrier caging the planks in was old and had rotted due to poor care, thus cracking under the pressure. Witnesses claim there was no one above the tower. It was empty when the fall occurred. It was a natural misfortune."

"Oh." She slowly nodded. No matter the new information, why did she still feel unconvinced? Shouldn't she be relieved that somebody didn't plan to kill her? Or anybody? And judging by his tone and grim expression highlighted by the shadows his hood casted, he appeared to share her feelings. "That is a relief."

"Yes."

Silence. Then, she frowned yet anew. "May I ask you a question?"

"Knowing you'll still ask despite my refusal, why not? Ask."

She met his eyes. "What have you been doing in all the days you were absent?"

He hesitated for a moment before he chose to answer her. "I'm studying the artefact and by doing so, improving our arsenals and many other things."

"The artefact? You mean that golden sphere?"

He nodded.

"You used that... thing on me, didn't you? In the dungeon. You made me see false images."

"Unless you wanted a real dagger in your stomach, I thought it best to follow through that plan."

She swallowed, then licked her lips. "I understand why you did what you did. But... how are you able to use it freely? I recall Abbas failing quite miserably. What's your secret?"

He now fully turned to her, his eyes slightly narrowing. "Why the sudden interest? And how do you know Abbas?"

She pursed her lips, shrugging. "I simply found it peculiar, that is all. As for Abbas, you did say his name on that day when he wielded the artefact in his hands. I also ran into him. What a queer man. Anyways," she said, waving her words away with her hand.

A beat of silence. Then, "Its powers are something my mind can somehow withstand. That is _all_. Now tell me how you ran into Abbas."

Why the sudden curiosity? She took a step forward. "We bumped into each other, but back to the topic at hand. So you mean to tell me that the only reason why you weren't brought to your knees and your head is not in miserable pieces is because you possess enough intellect capable of braving its damaging powers?"

He didn't hesitate as he frankly said, "Yes."

She stilled, frowning, thinking. "So if I were to touch it, would it assail me?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Where is it?" she found herself asking. "Can I hold it?"

His eyes narrowed and, cocking his head to the side, he took a step forth. Ooh, she wasn't a fan of this look. "You think it's a game, to make light of its gravitating dynamism? Mind I remind you that because of it you lost your memories?"

"I— I just— Sorry," she exhaled in exasperation. "I was simply curious. And I lost my memories because you held it against me. I never touched it."

Those eyes bore danger in them as he lowly uttered, "I used it on you, yes. But it makes no difference—its effects left you on the brink of losing your mind. What makes you think it'd go mild when you actually touch it?"

"I don't," she offered lowly. "I'm no fool. But why do you guard it so?"

"Because it is lethal. It is more of a weapon than it is an artefact."

"Is that why you are exploiting a weapon to make more weapons?" she questioned with a slight arch of her brow.

Her words caused him to still, then he abruptly took another step forward, this one much powerful, grounding, and she knew she'd affronted him when that was not at all her aim.

"You think I'm manipulating my people? Our Creed?" he gritted out, almost growled. She was silent. "You think me a man of no honour, that I'd use the artefact for sheer military power? Forge weapons that'd shed blood across the streets? What are you implying, woman, that I'm afraid? That I'm willing to hide behind walls of ammunition, too cowardly to face my enemies?"

She hastily shook her head. "N-No. I didn't mean— I— Well, what did you expect? You yourself stated you're improving the weapons."

"Yes, that I did. But sanguinely for good causes, not the ones you make them out to be." He sighed, as if coming to the conclusion that explaining further would somewhat make her understand. "There was once a time when our Creed demanded the sacrifice of our ring finger so the Hidden Blade could work. It was also to test how far we'd go to give up for its causes. But now, with the aid of the artefact, I've changed the design of the blade and abolished the ritual."

Her head immediately lowered to check on his hand. He'd always missed a finger, and now she knew why. "Well, then, I presume that is good," she provided.

He was silent yet again. It was as though they never touched or kissed each other. His exterior was a massive block of hard ice and she didn't have the right equipment to break her way into his warmth, the place where he dwelled. How long will this process take? How long until they were in each other's arms again? Nevertheless, seeing him standing there with no acknowledgement of yesterday's events, she at least wanted to elucidate that insulting him was not her goal.

"Altair," she softly began.

He gently tilted his face to the side, giving her his attention but offering nothing more.

"I believe you to be a good man. A very just one, at that. Yes, there are times you drive me mad. Yes, there are moments I think you unfair even despite my praising just a second ago. But you are always with an alternative motive, and one cannot argue with that. What I'm trying to say is that... I will always see the good side of you. No matter what." Her heart was beginning to beat fast. Her face was heating up. Her breaths were coming out short. She still continued. "If ever I witness you kill a man, I'd think he was responsible for his own demise. I'd think him to be a rapist, a murderer himself, and he deserved what he got. If ever I witness a woman crying after you, I'd make her out to be a fool. A fool for getting involved with an assassin in the first place. If ever I see you kill a child—even if that is inconceivable—I'd conclude he was a carrier of a deadly sickness, and killing him was the only way to ascertain it would not have spread like a plague. Inane, I know. Foolish, even, for I might identify a lot with the weeping female. But what I'm trying to say is that—I know I'm talking too much—that you are, that I was... I'm just so very glad and lucky that my first, honest kiss was with a man like you. I would never doubt you. I would never..."

The ice melted, falling like a puddle of water around his feet. Altair, tossing the letter in his hand on the table, closed the remaining distance between them and, cupping the back of her nape and yanking her body to his, pressed his forehead against hers. She clutched at his strong biceps with her bandaged fingers, digging in.

"Enough," he hotly gritted out.

Shutting her eyes, she moved her forehead against his with a slow shake of her head. "I would never mistrust you. Know that I'd stand by you..."

"Stop talking," he said, his hand coming to rest on her waist and tightly squeezing. The bruises already decorating her skin cried out. She didn't care. He was _holding_ her. She deeply inhaled his scent, a mix of sandalwood and fresh lemons, and she couldn't get enough.

"No," she whispered out. He growled.

"You are bad for me, Farah," he lowly said, his breath fanning over her skin. _She_ was bad for him? "Do you not understand?"

She swallowed, then slowly shook her head again. "I will be good." Cracking her lids open, she rose on her tip-toes and tauntingly bit at his chin. "I will behave."

A shaky breath parted his lips, and his figure shuddered under her touch, as if barely keeping himself in a leash. She wanted to _snap_ it. "No, you won't," he darkly said, the words confident. "You will certainly be a distraction I cannot afford."

The words 'My time is of great essentiality, and wasting it is odious' played in her head, and only now she understood their meaning. He thought her a distraction? From what? His duties?

"I will give you your space," she assured, timidly kissing his cheeks. "I promise."

He humourlessly chuckled, the sound almost hoarse. "Do you still not understand? Space away from you will the be last thing I'd want if ever we venture down this road."

She exhaled, then licked her lips, meeting his eyes. She was sure hers mirrored his. Molten hot. Desperate. Achy. Even hopeful. Then another thought dawned on her and everything came to grinding halt.

He thought her a distraction... not someone unworthy. That meant... he distanced himself because he deemed it essential for his Creed. His brethren. He also thought he would fail to give them his all if ever they decided to follow their inner desires. Now everything made sense, and even though she felt extremely relieved, she also felt heavily burdened.

He was putting his brethren, his cult, before her. Before himself. She understood him. Really, she did. He was the mentor, he had duties. Responsibilities. This life, the life of an assassin, might also be the only life he knew how to lead, hence she couldn't openly judge him for the decisions he was opt to make. She loved his never ending loyalty towards his people, and they were extremely lucky to possess it. But what she didn't understand was why he was bent to conclude they'd fail. Why was he already assuming the negative? She'd try her hardest to always support him, be there for him, and perhaps even risk for him. They could ascend rather than tragically crash like he was already accepting. Whatever reason(s) he had, she wanted to know why, right here and now.

"Tell me," she croaked out. "_Why_ do you hesitate?"

"No," was the hard, determined retort. _Frustrating man!_ She had it coming, that she'd accept.

"Always so stubborn," she whispered, tsking. "But I'm—"

They suddenly heard the approaching of footsteps, and he released her, stepping away as if she'd just acquired a deadly virus. She refused to let that hurt her.

Clearing her throat, she stepped away, scratching her neck.

"Mentor," a Cadet voiced, body straight and rigid as he halted before his leader.

Altair eyed him, frowning. "What?"

"The second-in-command said he's forgotten a few scrolls regarding the blue-print, stated them to be important. I've come to take them to him, if you'll direct me to them, that is."

Altair sighed, grabbing the three scrolls lying on the table and handing them to the Cadet. The Cadet nodded, marching off. That left the two of them. But the moment was gone, ruined, and he was suddenly a thousand miles away. Attempt number one was a half success. _Must try harder next time_.

She sighed, thumbing her back. "I should go, too. So..." She pursed her lips, turning on her heels. Altair unexpectedly lifted his hand, as if reaching for her, and then, seeing what he's done, retreated it and clasped his hands behind his back. His biceps tightened, causing the material to hug his muscles.

"Go," he sternly said. He might as well have barked.

One step, two, she stepped away. Then she halted, looking back. "Altair," she murmured.

His head perked up at the sound of his name.

"I don't regret it," she offered with a smile. "Not even a little."

He knew what she was referring to, and she noticed his shoulders tense as he eyed her in gripping silence. The kiss was the best thing she's ever experienced, and he had to know what he's done to her. It was the most magnificent crime ever committed.

With that, his eyes still lingering on her, the very energy of them burning her back and making her hot, she walked away to do her daily duties.

-x-

"Farah: 1, Haroon: 0. Wait, let me rephrase that. Farah: 3, Haroon: 1. Victory is so sweet! Wait, so judging by your long stride, I'll take a wider step." Chewing the grape in her mouth, she stole a step forth, closing in on the tandoor. They were playing the One-Step-More-To-Your-Favourite-Dish game. Or that's what she called it, anyways.

The point was, she wanted Sayadieh, a meal consisting of fish, spiced rice, and caramelized onions, while Haroon wanted Dawood Basha; plain, ugly meatballs. Having Zainab throw grapes at them from distance, each catch with their mouths was a step closer to victory. Their Finish Line was the tandoor, and Farah was only a few, sweet feet away. She could already taste the Sayadieh dish in her mouth, and winning suddenly became an obligation. _Sigh_. If only she was as determined to win Altair over. Whatever. Eat first, think later.

"Haroon, it's your turn. This time don't just stand there like a fool and actually try to catch the grape on time," Zainab called out. Haroon scoffed, dismissing his sister's words with a flick of his wrist. Snapping a grape from its vine, she tossed it to his direction. It flew, flew, fleeew, ticked him on the cheek and fell downwards. Oh, wait. Haroon caught it with a swift bow of his head. Chewing it and tossing daggers at her with his narrowed eyes, he took one step towards her.

Her jaw dropped open. That— That— That wasn't fair! He conquered two of her steps with his long stride, and now only lagged a foot behind.

"That's not right!" she sputtered, pointing at his boots. "It takes someone a hundred years to fold his legs, this is outrageous! Fine, that just means I have to jump."

"No, no jumping!" Zainab ordered, shaking her finger a No at her. "You know the rules, Farah. What should he do? He was born with those legs."

She crossed her arms against her middle. "You only take his side because you, too, want those stupid meatballs."

Zainab grinned, rubbing her tummy. "I can taste them already."

Farah gasped. "Wipe that thought away! The only thing we'll be tasting tonight is Sayadieh. I'll make sure of it; come on, throw a grape, friend. I'll beat you both to the Finish Line."

"Fine, fine," Zainab grumbled, snapping a grape and hurling it at her. She opened her mouth wide and caught it. She threw her arms up in the air. "Woohoo! Taste that, losers." Having only a few feet between her and the tandoor, she stretched her legs wider than she had before, and that earned a protest from both Zainab and Haroon.

"But you're taking too much," Zainab shot out, almost whined. "Farah, don't you dare—"

Her muscles strained and it hurt but she was able to conquer the final steps, and gradually rose to a straight position, her arm on the tandoor. She mockingly pouted at Zainab. "Awh, are you sad? Is that a tear I see in your eyes? But what can I do?" She replaced the pout with a toothy grin. "I was born with these legs."

Her friends shook their heads. "You're the Devil," Zainab muttered. "No, scratch that. You're the one who sired the Devil."

"What?" She put her hand behind her ear, slightly leaning in. "I can't hear you over the sound of my victory."

Even when Zainab shook her head again, her lips twitched at the edges, as did Haroon's, and both sighed loudly.

"Fine, disgusting Sayadieh it is." Walking over to the stoves, both got to work. Brushing her palms in a job well done, Farah went off to do her barn duties. Since she already finished the three floors—a job Altair didn't know she was still doing—and finished teaching Haroon their daily lessons, she only had the horses to tend to. Then, she'd take the warmest bath and eat the sweetest food.

_Yay me_.

-x-

"I... don't understand what just happened," Zainab muttered as they all entered the kitchen, expressions dazed and struck. "I thought I would, I think I do... but everything we've ever known there one moment and discarded the next? Baba, what does this mean?"

Hamza sighed, frowning, as he sat at the table. Everyone followed suit. "The mentor surely knows what he's demanding of his people, but it is still excessive. Abolishing our uniforms, the cutting of the ring finger, and changing our missions to one of secret? But that is blasphemy! Those very points were the structures upholding our creed above ground; the very foundation! It goes against everything our deceased mentor, Al Mualim, had stood for. Had taught us to stand for! Now we are to forget them as though they aren't already encrypted in our blood? What of the _promise_ of paradise! How are we to reach it if the ways to claim it are exiled? No, no. He demands too much."

Everyone nodded in silence. Everyone except Farah.

She was finding it hard to understand the fault behind Altair's orders. A day had passed after their morning together in his working space, and she didn't mind it, only missed him to the point where she couldn't breathe, but really didn't mind it. And then on the second day, everyone was assembled in the central base of the fortress, and up above them, in the office, stood both Altair and Malik. They'd inched closer to the edge, thus being able to look down upon their brethren clustered in one area.

There had been booms of chatter and shouts, and all were of intrigue and confusion. What was it that all the assassins on missions had to retreat for, all trainings put on hold?

As Altair stood perched above their heads, his eyes taking in the scenery unfolding below him, he'd spoken, his voice cutting through the crowd. Silence had immediately befallen, and all heads had turned up to listen to their mentor.

"My brethren," he'd started, voice hard and cold but nonetheless determined. "Your rendezvous here is no coincidence, nor is it to be airily dismissed. After weeks of thinking, examining and studying the old ways of the Assassins, I've concluded it wise to alter a few points. Do not mistake my words for arrogance; I do this in means for our survival and the people we fight to protect. But heed, too, that this is not an act of rebellion. Al Mualim was an excellent teacher, he excelled in many ways than one, but he was also deceitful, and... his methods are of the old world. They will fail to shield us if our enemies dare to rise against our Order. And rise they will, I have no qualm about that. To revolutionize our ways is to defeat the approaching demise. The points are as follows: the removal of the ring finger. It is abolished from today henceforth."

Gasps and murmurs of utter shock and disbelief had immediately filled the space. Altair had not stopped.

"That one act cannot grant anybody heaven. It is false religion, and my brethren, pay heed, our duty is not to the custom but our people. We must be wiser than that. The second are the uniforms, I prohibit them, too."

More gasps. More murmurs.

"They give us away. We are known as the infamous Men in White. Our enemies can identify us by our appearance, and I cannot risk one man's life because of such a detail. The arsenals will stay the same, and that brings us to another point—poison. Before it was not accepted as a weapon, it was forbidden, but I've changed that. We will use them against our targets. The latter will assist us in more ways than one as I'll prove by concluding my speech with a final point: no more public assassinations. We will become a secret organization, one that will operate with different techniques. Your training methods will change, and I'll aid you in that particular progress. Everything in our past that'll link us to the present are non-existent. Now, you must be questioning as to why I've abolished the removal of the ring finger when that is the only way we could use the Hidden Blade. Well, my brethren, I would never deny anyone a friend that has aided us in numerous occasions. I have redesigned its structure, providing it with a new set of metal, and it doesn't involve any sacrifices. To enhance it further, the poison is an addition to the model. You shall find it in every Hidden Blade."

Then the space had echoed with surprised and bewildered whispers and chatter. Grabbing the example from Malik's hand, Altair had walked through the narrow corridor, descended down the stairs, and broken into the crowd. After a few minutes, the deadly, cold-blooded killers had actually released their own set of 'Oohs' and 'Aahs'. Soon after, all had been dismissed, and now here they sat—Hamza, Zainab, Haroon, Maryam and Farah.

Her tongue was dying to move, to form words of reason, but she feared she might indirectly insult practices they've instilled into their every day life with her gruesome choice of words. And knowing her, they would be gruesome. She did partner up with the coldest man on the planet, and they both had planned to kill a soul—and succeeded.

_Hold your tongue, Farah,_ she ordered herself. _Hooold it_.

"But aren't you guys thinking way into it?" she blurted out, then timidly shrugged a shoulder. Eight set of eyes grounded her with intensity. "I mean," she started, paused, then sighed. "He didn't speak false. Knowing the certain type of people the assassins kill, your enemies are bound to rise. Maybe I'm not familiar with the way things work here— Wait, maybe? More like definitely. Okay, never mind. But the point is, I may be a foreigner to you guys, but I'm not so to Altair. In fact, I've aided him with one of his targets."

Those eight set of eyes widened in surprise.

"Wait, you did?" Zainab.

"Oh, girl, I knew there was a story behind you coming here." Maryam.

"Which target?" Hamza.

"Woah." She held out her hands. "One at a time. Yes, I did. And, yes, there is, but this is as far as I'll go into sharing the details of my past. And he was Edwardo de Pablo. A Templar."

Several blinks followed her words. Then, "You have to tell us how you met!" Zainab quipped in, her expression one of excitement.

"Oh, yes, everything," Maryam joined in with a husky laugh.

Well, this took the wrong turn. Farah loudly sighed. "Someday I will, but not today. What I meant to state is that... the Templars are not your every day thugs. They're also a force, a very dark one at that, and they'll stop at nothing to achieve their goals—whatever they may be. And let me tell you, they aren't pretty. I've had my share with them, and it left me scarred for life. I've lost my—" _family to them_, she nearly said. Clearing her throat, she continued. "Anyways, what I'm trying to say is take the mentor's words into deep consideration. He does not speak vainly. The points he's set have great reasoning behind them. He states them not because he merely wishes to, but for actual greater means. And losing a finger—I'm not going to openly judge, that is not my aim—but it does seem alike false religion. He was right—your previous mentor's methods are of the old world. I do not wish to insult him, he seemed like a pretty cool guy, even when I only saw his burning body, but I'm _assured_ there are other ways of achieving paradise."

Farah could not stop the flow of her words, and she was surprised to admit she didn't want to. There was something in the act of defending Altair... it felt so right, so good. She was... proud? Yes, that was it. She was proud about the notion of protecting him from the negative comments of his own brethren.

"My point is," she continued, licking her lips. "Maybe we are coming on too hard on him without actually seeing for ourselves what those points could actually do for the Order. It might as well save the life of your fellow brother for not wearing the proper silvery attire. At some length, you must find a ring of truth to his demands, right?"

Hamza roughly scoffed, but he appeared more solemn than the time he walked into the kitchen. "It is not that we are so foolishly driven by ignorance, no. It is simply going to be hard, girl. In one moment, he flipped the skies and land, and we are now left dangling. But you are also right," he added, nodding to himself. Everyone suddenly eyed him in shock, even Farah. The strong, determined Hamza admitting she was right? This day is full of surprises, it seems. "We are assassins, the sons, daughters, and wives of assassins, we shall cope. Our basic instinct is to adapt, and so we shall."

Maryam, too, nodded. "Altair will not leave his people after such a declaration. He'll be with us in every step of the way, I believe that."

Then there was silence, but it was the good kind. As if now everyone found sound tranquillity, a strong conviction in one's thoughts and decisions, and nothing could ever break the trust they were slowly building with the mentor.

"So, can you now tell us how you two met?" Zainab broke the peaceful moment, earning a "Zainab!" from both Hamza and Maryam. Farah only smiled.

-x-

"You want me to do what?" she repeated for, like, the hundredth time. Clearly she misheard, clearly horse dump had accidently entered her ears and left her a little deaf. Clearly the latter sounded more realistic than the words she'd just heard. Or misheard. _Ob-vious-leee_.

Maryam rolled her eyes. "I want you to take this tray of food to the mentor's study. The Cadet waiting outside will guide you there. Now go before the soup gets cold."

"But why can't he go by himself?"

"Because I'm telling _you_ to," Maryam retorted, forcing her to take hold of the tray. "And because the kid has duties to fulfil; going in, putting the tray of food on the mentor's table, and going out will just take too much of his time. Who knows? Maybe he'll be stalled by the mentor. See? We can't have such disorder."

Behind her, gently swirling a _kazaan_ full of hot chicken soup, giggled Zainab with her kitchen utensil. Her stomach rumbled in hunger at the sweet, spicy and hot scent wafting from the soup, its heat filling the space with enough warmth to rival the cold of the season.

But still Farah narrowed her eyes. "Something smells funny in here." And she didn't mean the food, even though it smelled nothing close to funny but was deliciously mouth-watering and...and... s_he was so hungry_.

"Yes, and that is you wasting our time." Maryam turned her and ushered her out of the kitchen. To the Cadet, she said, "Take her to the mentor's study, but do not stay!"

The young Cadet hastily nodded. "Yes."

"Wait, why are you being so—" She gasped, then slowly turned. "Maryam... What are you doing?"

"What do you mean, girl?"

"Are you trying to work something in-between me and—"

"Oh, this girl talks too much!" Maryam interjected by throwing her hands to the skies as if in prayer for patience. She gave her a push towards the corridor. "Leave, before I reassign you from your duty in the barn."

She gasped. "And now she threatens me. Fine!" She tilted her chin up. "I'm going. Here," she took a few steps, "I'm moving. Happy now?"

Maryam hoarsely chuckled. "Thoroughly, my dear girl."

Shaking her head, she followed the Cadet.

As they passed through the torch-lit hallways, their crackling flames offering a small energy of heat, caressing her cool neck, she mused. She simply couldn't believe the ruse those two had planned, it just seemed inane. After their talk in the kitchen, she had gone to do her duties and when she'd returned for some food, they'd sat her down on a chair and interrogated her. Somewhere in the interrogation she'd spilled how he rescued her from some dangerous men, and now they carried with them the idea that there was something between Altair and her, a reason for her being here.

Yes, there had been. He'd wanted to give her the harshest form of hell he could. But now... he was giving her the sweetest taste of hell he could, and it was driving. Her. Mad. The kiss...

She shuddered, shaking her head. _Focus, don't want you tripping, Farah_. But maybe she could use this to her advantage. She could see him for the briefest second, maybe even squeeze in a hello between the short interaction before he shut the door in her face. Smiling, her steps more quick and excited, she followed the Cadet to the West wing and all the way up the spiralling steps.

As they travelled up the stairway with the tray in her hands, the heat of the soup twirling up and warmly caressing her face, she found herself gulping in hunger and hastily glanced away. _Maybe a teenie, bitsy taste would help quench the urge_, she mused, already watching the Cadet's back in case he suddenly turned and caught her red-handed.

_No, I can't. I'm no bait to my urges. I can wait_. After the simple knock-knock, hello, here's your meal, she'd go down to the kitchen and devour the kazaan full of chicken soup. She relaxed, already liking the plan. Craning her neck to the side, bypassing numerous open and closed windows, she examined the weather outside.

The sun had already set, leaving a dark navy-blue and grey hue of clouds in the sky; the air was chilly and almost crispy, reaching her very bones and causing them to rattle even despite her thick clothing, and every once in a while a breeze carrying the scent of upcoming snow and rain-soaked woods and twigs blew inside the castle, bringing with it freshness that lungs could never get enough of and coldness skins would never fully recover from. And with the scent of the hot soup wafting about her and mixing with the air of nature, she realized how... _homy_ this all felt.

She suddenly felt at home.

The Cadet abruptly came to a stop before a massive door, and Farah had to stomp her foot very hard to refrain herself from bumping into his back. He turned to her.

"We have arrived. My duty is done." And, without waiting for her response, went back the way they came from. Wait, how did they even come here? She hadn't been paying much heed to her surroundings but only to the atmosphere. No, it's alright, she'd find her way back just fine, and if she didn't, she'd scream for help in one spot until somebody found her. Perfect.

Straightening her spine and giving her head a proper shake, as if to give her hair—which was braided and curled above her head—a chance to look its best, she once again stood erect. Then she spotted the disarray of her clothes and went about fixing them. Then she saw how dirty her boots were and nearly groaned in annoyance. This was never going to end, was it? At least she'd showered and changed her clothes, so two less things to worry about.

Balancing the tray on one hand, she raised her fist—only to pause before the raps could ensue.

Why was she nervous? And why was her heart hammering wild in her chest? Why did she suddenly tingle _all_ over her body?

Oh, God. She even feared that when he opened the door, she'd jump on him, the tray tossed and forgotten.

_No, you won't! Your mother taught you better. Both of them_. Yes. So first put the tray of food away and then leap. Breathing deep and slow, she gathered enough courage to give three knocks on the wooden barrier.

_Knock, knock, knock_.

She waited for the handle to turn, the whine as the door parted wide, and the view on the most beautiful-slash-deadly face she'd—hell, maybe everybody—ever beheld to greet her eyes while all the while she rocked uncharacteristically on her heels, even jumping a little in agitation.

A few seconds passed in silence, then a few more before she heard the stomp of footsteps approaching the door from the inside. By this time her heart was in her throat. No, scratch that. It was in her head, beating in her ears.

Keep calm, keep calm, don't throw yourself at him.

The handle turned, the door squeaked open, and—

She nearly choked on her own spit.

_Oh, sweet mercy_. Clad only in pants, the waist of them hanging low on his hips, giving her a direct view on the delicious line of faint patches of thin hair leaving a trail straight into his— anyways, was Altair. The wide expanse of his chiselled chest deeply rose up and down. He was also covered in sweat—from an excessive work out?—and tiny rivulets of them skid down his body like snakes, curving between rope after rope of pure brawn muscle and war-earned scars. She even caught one gradually trickle down his neck, his collarbone, and halt at one small, brown nipple. It lingered there... lingered a second longer... before going down again, her eyes trailing it.

Her tongue actually ached inside her mouth. Craving to catch that drop with a flick? The thought both shocked and pleased her, and a wave of need bloomed at the pit of her stomach.

In the midst of it all, her jaw slacked open, her breath hitched, her cheeks bloomed alike the reddest rose, and at the mere sight of him, her blood heated, further increasing her heart rate.

At the moment, he had one hand on the handle and the other on some book, and his face was turned away from the entrance and fixated on the contents within the layered pages, paying no heed to who stood at his door.

Then he parted the door ajar, as though giving permission for her to enter, and stepped out of the away, attention still on the book.

Um, uh, okay. Ignoring her fidgety muscles, she walked in and gently closed the door behind her.

He strode to the middle of the room, picking up a spear from the ground, and leisurely began rotating it in his hand—while still reading the book!

"Leave the food on the table," he voiced, his back to her. How did he know it was food she held when he didn't even look her way? Perhaps this was the usual time of the day where he got his dinner? Most probably. And maybe he even smelled the delicious aroma of the soup. _Want_.

Farah looked about her, taking in her current surroundings. His study was definitely bigger than her chamber, and rightly so. Every inch of space was stacked. Behind her, covering every block of stone, from ceiling to the ground, were shelves stacked with countless books. Before the shelves was a long and big wooden table, above it countless scrolls and books. To her right was a smaller table and designed chair, above the desk even more scrolls and even jars filled with... she didn't know. To her front, past Altair's form, was a spacious sitting area. There were wide, red sitting sofas and chairs and cushions and even dark carpets. There was a hearth stationed to the left of the area, and in it crackled wild flames of red, orange and yellow. Above the wall was a huge map of the bordering lands and numerous lethal weapons, and next to it was another stack of shelves with books, but those were smaller in comparison to the monstrosity that towered behind her. Two windows were stationed on the right side of the room, and one was open, bringing in fresh, nipping air that mingled deliciously with the heat of the room and its sandalwood and lemon scent. Altair's scent.

She didn't know to which table she should put the tray on, and for a moment struggled with indecision.

The sudden whip of weapon against thin air caught her attention, causing her to snap her gaze back at Altair's form. He was now rotating it with great force, striking here and there, and even caused it to twirl around his neck before catching it and stabbing the empty air once again. And he was doing all that whilst still reading!

But then the more he practiced, the more fascinated she became, and before she knew it, she was watching him with extreme attention. His moves were deadly. Sharp. Quick. One slice and a limb would fall off. Another slice and it'd be someone's head. Maybe two heads. Her eyes could not keep up. His muscles burned with precision and bolted and shifted with every attack, but then there was this one move he made, this one act, causing the muscles on his back to draw together in the most sensual way imaginable, that an actual feminine moan parted her lips, filling the space. It didn't help when the sudden heaty image of her digging her nails into his back crossed her mind.

She immediately realized what she'd done and slammed her hand over her mouth, her expression one of horror.

Altair's ministrations came to an abrupt halt. Those muscles she watched now stiffened in awareness, and he, lifting his head, shut the book and with the allure of a predator, slowly looked over his shoulder.

When golden hawk-like eyes collided with petrified brown ones, Farah became the human version of a deer before its head met the sharpness of an axe.

"U-Uh," she struggled to say. "Uh, I was—" She swallowed, suddenly looking down at the tray of food. "I meant umm yummm, food," she rubbed her tummy, forming another moan. "So delicious." _Stop, Dovaros. Just... enough_.

Altair fully turned, his front now facing her, causing her to swallow yet once more, and said, "Farah."

His voice, so husky and low, like a sensual plea beckoning her body to inch closer to his, caressed over her form, and she shuddered, suddenly covered in goose bumps. She looked up at his face. Why had he said it like that? Why had it sounded so—

At the rough lines tugging at the edges of his eyes and lips, and at the heat that now burned and scorched in his golden eyes, turning them into melted honey, she realized she found the answers to her questions and absent-mindedly licked her lips.

_Yes, please, yes_.

His eyes shot down to her lips, and he wore the most menacing expression, baring his straight, gleaming teeth at her—in a scowl. But... But why a scowl?

Those eyes found hers again and he, with a low growl, said, "What are you doing here?" before marching straight toward her.

-x-

**AN:** _this is not going to be fair for you but really, really, reallyyyyy please try to understand. I love you all so very much but I'm going to take another break. It's not going to be short. There's so much that's going on right now I just don't have the luxury to sit and write for hours on end. Note that I'm not leaving this story, I'm not abandoning you guys, I love you all too much. I'm also writing my first ever novel, so there's pressure in that, too. _

_Thank you for all the support you've given me and all the lovely comments. I read and re-read all your words, believe it or not. I love hearing your opinions and witty jests. Thank you, thank you, thank you, and I'm so very sorry. I'll start writing the next chapter, no doubt, I just don't know when I'll post it. (&amp; I ended it in such a nice place, so once again, I'm sorry lol)_

_Before I leave, I wanted to know who's a Thranduil fan?_


End file.
